FROG BLOG

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DQjExmkCKF4

Headed back to France Monday night wearing brand new Gore-Tex waterproof gloves, with an equally new luminous yellow waterproof (so they claim) oversuit packed away in the old bike roll (no fancy-Dan panniers on this old bus). Boarded the Portsmouth/Caen ferry just before 11pm with three other Beemer pilots who, I discovered later, were heading for a couple of weeks' touring in SW France and the Pyrenees. Whilst waiting to board they parked their pannier-laden beasts alongside and I sat gobsmacked as the first bike (one of these massive new 1300 Beemers, I think) mechanically raised itself up onto its centre stand with the aid of what sounded like some sort of glorified clockwork motor while the pilot began fiddling with what I thought was a rather large wing-mirror but which turned out to be some sort of hi-tech satnav, radio, intercom unit. Thought it was a bit odd when he apparently started talking to himself. Aye, aye, a nutter. Then I noticed a tiny microphone attached to his flip-front helmet and eventually twigged he was nattering to his two chums parked immediately behind. All three riders then spent about five minutes busily tapping what appeared to be little matchsticks onto what I guessed (probably incorrectly) were mobile phones connected to some weird electronic nerve centre on the bikes. Bit dark so I couldn't really see what was going on. However, had it been broad daylight I'd still have been completely in the dark. Giggled for a second as I caught my elderly Beemer giving these three flashy Beemer machines the eye with an air of wordly-wise contempt. Not for us this modern, gizmo accessorised, touring malarky. We're two of a kind. Just give us an open road, a creased up map, a tatty old rucksack and we'll boogie forever.

Once aboard, I parked up behind the trio and headed to the reclining chair dorm to grab a good corner spot, leaving the lads watching with worried concern as the deck hands secured their prized machines with ropes and straps. Just for a moment I'm sure I caught my old bike giggling again. Bagged a good spot by slinging helmet and jackets in a secluded corner behind a row of seats (those seats are impossible to kip in), nipped to the bar for a large G and T, had a quick smoke on the back deck (place seemed to be full of excitable French kids returning back after a school trip to Angleterre) then headed for the self-serve restaurant for a bit of grub. As usual, I couldn't decide what to go for as I paced up and down looking at the goodies on display. Then a very French looking chap plumped for a salad thing with vinaigrette and a couple of sardines on top. Good choice, monsewer; that's the one for me! So I grabbed one, plonked it on the tray alongside a bit of bread and a midget bottle of Cote de Rhone, and whizzed to the till before I could change my mind. At the till the lady asked if I was a lorry driver. Dunno why. Maybe it was my choice of grub; maybe it was because the other chap was a lorry driver; or maybe I just look like one. Strangely, I was asked the same question the next morning at breakfast. Think I might say 'yes' next time and get the grub a bit cheaper.

Dinner done, I then headed back to the rear deck for a coffee and a fag as we slid out of Portsmouth and into the channel. So much more peaceful without those noisy kids. After yawning a bit, it was time for bo-bos. Descended into the bowels of the boat, eventually found my dorm, couldn't see a thing 'cos the lights were out, headed for my spot in the opposite corner, tripped over a few bodies on the floor, place seemed to be packed with a bunch of gigglers. Dunno what's so funny. Too much booze I reckon. Eventually staggered to within inches of my bagged space when someone tapped on my shoulder. A French lady. "Excuse me sir, zees rhoome eez a private party." Bugger. Wrong room. I was in the damned French kids' dorm. Lady no doubt presumed me to be some kind of sex maniac, child molesting, midnight prowler. Damned embarrassing. Then had to reverse out, tripping up over hundreds of bodies all of which were sniggering their heads off and, no doubt, pointing at the leather-clad weirdo. Hell. Sheer hell. Gathered my composure and crept next door. Lights out again, very little sign of humanoids, tip-toed to my spot, took off leathers, assumed horizontal, kipped.

Left the boat the next morning in convoy with the high-tech Beemer trio who were heading for a Bordeaux night stop. Just down the road lads. Should make it by lunchtime. Just follow the signs. Keep your eyes on the road, not those confounded satnavs. Left them and their wide panniers stuck behind a line of caravans as my low-tech steed charged us up to the head of the traffic-light queue. Then we were gone. Weather started off cloudy but soon cleared up. Bright sunshine all the way. Took off jacket at a Le Mans coffee stop. Whizzed through Tours, Loches, Chateauroux, la Chatre and various other places that I'd passed through a few days earlier in pouring rain. Arrived home at 4pm, had a quick change and drove off in the dogwagon to pick up the mutts. Sat outside as the church bells clanged seven, ice clinking in a scotch and dry, Sprocket rolling in lush green grass, Jock wee-ing against his far flung territorial markers, swallows sunning on telegraph wires. Phone reconnected so left a message that I got back okay. Evening walk up the granite cross. Back in the old routine.

Er, passed some glorious sights on the way back. Had my camera with me but only managed a couple of shots...

Cracking week-end.

Kicked off somewhat less than perfectly on Friday soir when I turned up at The Alma hostelry in Wandsworth for a 6pm RDV with an old chum. Waited an hour, didn't turn up, so buggered off. Gave the bastard an email bollocking next day. Responded with gushing apologies and the brilliant excuse "I forgot". Rearranged for Saturday soir.

Saturday dawned with strange sunshine stuff. Nipped down the local shop for an eagerly anticipated, non out of date Daily Telegraph, bacon, eggs and something described as a baguette. Sadly, any resemblance to proper French bread turned out to be merely visual. Still, we had a jolly brekky followed by a visit to a local bike shop for waterproof gear en route to Guildford for Carolyn's 60th at Dave and Sue's. All this, of course, took slightly longer than anticipated due to Georgie's typically girlie problem of deciding what to wear (further complicated by being Libran) and my typically Scottish problem of fainting when seeing the prices of Gore-Tex stuff at the bike shop.

Tasks completed, we then whizzed down the A3 in Don's borrowed, bright yellow, Peugeot 107 (a magnifique little roller skate) and hit Guildford in about forty minutes. Then spent another forty minutes in a traffic jam (avoid Guildford on a Saturday - it's rubbish), eventually arriving at our destination around 2ish. Amazingly still sunny, so visions of having a garden party indoors were immediately dispelled.

Splendid do. Loads of old faces I hadn't seen for ages; some for well over twenty years or more. Took some time to recognise a few bods (and vice versa!) but amazing how quickly one can slip into the same old mickey-taking routines of yore. Grub was brill too. And lashings of laughing juice. Unfortunately, due to wishing to hang on to driving licence and not wishing to spend months in jail, I forced myself to spend the very pleasant afternoon sipping a litre bottle of Volvic lemon and lime water while constantly fighting an irresistable urge to swig from the nearest champers bottle, of which there seemed to be dozens. However, I allowed myself the enormous pleasure of knocking back a bucket of bubbly in about half a second flat when everyone raised their glasses to the brand new state pensioner.

Three hours passed in the blink of an eye so we said our farewells and hit the road back to Putney. Then I caught the train to Wandsworth and walked into The Alma on the dot of 7.15, fully expecting to waste another hour waiting for the non-appearance of my scatter-brained chum. But, surprise, surprise, there he was with pints at the ready, gushing further apologies for his previous soiree's 'no show'. Apparently everyone nowadays uses a mobile phone to constantly confirm RDVs, minutes before turning up, just in case someone forgets due to extremely busy schedules. Well, being a hermit recluse with a binned mobile phone and nothing to do apart from being dragged across hillsides by rabid mutts, this just ain't my style. I live in a different world.

Anyway, being a Saturday soiree, there was little surprise that the pub was fairly noisy. More specifically, three dickhead blokes. So Jonesie and I took our beverages outside for a more peaceful chinwag and, in my case, a welcome smoke. Barman immediately followed us out saying that, due to a neighbour complaint, drinking outside was no longer allowed until further notice. Unbelievable!

So we buggered off to the nearby 'Ship' hostelry by Wandsworth Bridge, which has long been a fave boozer from my early days of living 'sarf of the river' way back in the late sixties. 'Course it's changed a lot since then. First knew it when it was a quiet little place frequented by bus drivers from around the corner. Had a tiny stage with a Bacofoil backdrop and bus-people used to do Friday night turns warbling classics like 'I Left My Heart in San Francisco' and 'The Green Green Grass of Home'. Then the yuppies moved south and the whole area changed, including The Ship. Kiss of death was when it was voted 'Evening Standard Pub of the Year'. Now it's populated by second-generation yuppies with credit card accounts behind the bar. Progress I suppose. Anyway, after an extremely enjoyable pint or three, Jonesie and I split and I headed back to Putney.

Brilliant Sunday. Easy day in front of the telly ogling the British Moto GP, the Hungarian GP and the end of the Tour de France. Then a take-away curry and a swift half in the Arab Boy while waiting. Reeking of garlic ce matin.

Bateau back to France tonight. Been a good trip.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P9Hp3x0-Um4

Been a bit quiet lately. Not through choice but due to circumstances beyond my control. Namely, an act of God. Or, more specifically, a thunderbolt lightning strike on Poussanges that scuppered half the hamlet's phone lines. Happened about ten days ago. Been offline and disconnected ever since. Er, 'til I remembered I had an elderly mobile phone rotting away in the back of a dusty drawer. Charged it up and headed to the top of the hill in the back field where a couple of flickering dots on the phone's screen indicated the possibility of phone-line reception. Managed to get through to Georgie and explain my disappearance. Apparently the France Telecom lads are about to sort it out. Should take about a week. So we might be reconnected when I get back. Get back? Yup, get back.

Popped across the Channel last night for a chum's 60th birthday 'garden party' tomorrow afternoon. Everyone's hoping for sunshine but recent meteorological inclemency suggests otherwise. And how!

Set off yesterday morning from a wet and windy Poussanges aboard the historic GS Beemer, bound for the port of Caen, otherwise known as Ouistreham. Ten minutes later I arrived at the petrol station in Felletin, soaking wet and seriously considering aborting the mission. Whoever manufactured my inappropriately named 'waterproofs' needs shooting. A plastic carrier bag or bin liner would have been far more effective. However, having done an oil change on the Beemer and dropped the dogs off at the kennels, I decided to defy Armageddon and soldier on.

My reward was a quick burst of sunshine about twenty miles later somewhere near la Chatre. The next time the sun appeared was about three hundred miles further on as I arrived at the ferry port, wet, bedraggled, dying for a fag and a coffee, and convinced I now had webbing between my fingers and toes.

Between those two sunbursts lay hell, sheer hell. Never known weather like it. Par example, on the open flatlands 'twixt Chateauroux and Tours the road was attacked by a rapidly advancing grey wall that obliterated light as it dumped a sea of water across its trail. Obviously I could see it coming so I slowed right down. Then it hit with a bang. A forceful windrush with horizontal hail. Despite crawling along in second gear, it blew me right off the road. Abandoned the bike and hid under a tree by a roadside wall. Stood there drenched for about ten minutes watching cars and lorries creeping along with indicators flashing and wipers going beserk. Couple of cars also stopped. Then it was gone, just as quickly as it arrived. Back to ordinary torrential rain with thunder and lightning again. Fired up the GS and continued on my merry way.

Had an equally uncomfy night on the Caen/Portsmouth ferry. Kipped on the floor in damp leathers. Disembarked at about 6.30am after donning wet waterproofs and soggy gloves. Straight into the teeth of another black cloud rainstorm. Could hardly see anything going over the South Downs at Butser Hill. Road was like a river. Stayed that way until just past Guildford. Arrived here in Putney at around eightish, soaking wet encore. Taken a couple of hours to dry out. Feeling fine now and somewhat relieved to have made it. Return trip Monday night. Hopefully weather will improve. But, somehow I doubt it. Might have to invest in some Gore-Tex gloves. My hands are black. Glove dye. Just won't come off. Nightmare.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TwSUlgJ0css

...the sun's never there when you want it?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kQ0AI_w_70w

Weather's been noticeably iffy lately. Cloudy and a bit chilly all this week with just the odd bit of intermittent sunshine. Hopeless for painting. Started that picture of Didier's maize field well over a week ago. Haven't been able to finish it due to lack of mid-day sun. All that's left to do are the maize plant shadows on the earth and a few trees round the edge. But, as mentioned in my last posting, the maize is growing at such a rate that very soon the plant shadows and earth will no longer be visible. In the last week alone, everything's grown upwards and outwards about a foot or more. Think I'll just have to go up there tomorrow, sun or no sun, and just rattle it off, mostly from memory.

Did a quick painting last Saturday. A late evening view of Christian's field out back with newly rolled hay 'wheels' dotting the landscape and casting long shadows. Worked on it for about an hour before the sun dropped behind the trees. Planned on going up there the next day to finish it off but... a) it clashed with the mens' final at Wimbledon, and b) the farmer had removed the hay stacks that very afternoon. No problem thought I. I'll finish it off on Monday evening. Can't be too hard remembering how the stacks looked. The tricky bit is getting the light right. And you don't need the stacks for that.

Typically, we haven't had a sunny soiree since then. Until last night. So yesterday evening I dashed out there for a quick half hour's paint sploshing when the sun was low. Ran out of pale yellow. Ain't perfect but it'll do.

Sunday. I had it all planned. A nice lazy day. Bit more work to the painting of Didier's maize field at around lunchtime when the angle of the sun is just right, followed by an afternoon's slobbing out in front of the telly watching Le Tour and the men's final at Wimbledon, then a quick checkover of the Citroen dogwagon before its MoT test on Monday before rounding off the day with a good old soiree dogwalk up in the hills and a dozy ogle of the US round of MotoGP just before bo-bos.

Er, didn't quite happen like that though.

Around mid-day I was just about to go out painting when the phone rang. Isabelle. Come round to lunch immediately. Er, but I'm just going out to do some more painting. Do it tomorrow, come round now. Er..., dammit, okay. I'll be round in twenty minutes. As I've said before, you don't argue with Isabelle. Gave the dogs a quick walk, had a quick wash, noticed the dirty washing basket was brimming over with smelly gear, loaded the washing machine, stuck the waste pipe in the sink, grabbed my baccy and toddled off to lunch with the dogs (Isabelle said bring 'em round).

Despite being somewhat miffed about my painting session being aborted (maize grows rapidly at this time of year so it's already much higher than when I started) I had an extremely pleasant al-fresco lunch with my friendly neighbours. Roast chicken, beans and grilled (I think) tomato halves topped with a yummy garlic cream with parsely, accompanied by a cheeky Cote de Rhone, followed by bread and cheeses and fresh coffee. Marvellous. Lasted a couple of hours.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OO3ZMdcL8Pc

Lunch over, I waddled off home for Le Tour and tennis. Opened the front door and... disaster. Kitchen floor had become a swimming pool. Checked washroom. Washing machine pipe had fallen from the sink and was gushing water. About two hours' worth. Switched off machine and dragged soaking wet dog beds, settee blanket, carpet and floor-standing piles of old newspapers outside. Then started emptying the swimming pool by sweeping water towards the front door (not as easy as it sounds - has to go up a one-inch step). Took ages.

With soggy shoes I made a cuppa and went upstairs to the telly. Caught the end of Le Tour and then the third set of the tennis. Splendid match. Nerve-wracking stuff. Dogs started demanding walkies in the fifth and final set. Not yet lads, it'll be over soon. Said that for an hour or more. What was it? A 15-13 final set? Shame someone had to lose.

Monday morn. Kitchen floor almost dry. Washing about to be hung outside. Then check Citroen. MoT at four. Might fail due to elderly rear tyres. We'll see. Fingers crossed.

P.S. - Smelly Citroen dogwagon amazingly passed its Controle Technic (MoT test) with just one advisory - get those rear tyres replaced soon. While it was being tested I waddled off down to Aubusson to kill an hour by buying a few classic car mags and having a couple of coffees, then waddled back. About three minutes later, halfway up the hill, the cafe proprietor wheezily caught me up carrying the sweater I'd left at the table. Nice people the French.

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.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Exr-DOWJ3A0

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Phyg_uIPQII

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...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ok8TjUU1ml8