FROG BLOG

Our shack..., no, I'll start again.

Nestling high in the mist-shrouded hills of the Limousin backwoods and boasting (boasting?! - surely one of the most ridiculous words in estate agent parlance!) glorious southerly views across a sun-kissed verdant valley towards the distant rolling plains of the fabled Millevaches region, our magnificent chateau is situated roughly halfway between the cities of Limoges and Clermont Ferrand, about 75 miles and a couple of hours drive from each. Limoges we're vaguely familiar with, having passed through it on countless occasions to visit the airport; most recently last week when we stopped off for a quick walk round its historical centre, as mentioned in an earlier posting. However, despite living here on and off (me on, Georgie off) for nearly five years, Clermont Ferrand remains a place that neither of us have visited..., 'til yesterday.

We began the day with a leisurely dogwalk through the sweet-scented pine forest beyond the old granite cross, then hopped in the smelly old Citroen dogwagon and drove into Felletin for the weekly Friday morning market, stopping off on our merry way at Monsieur Barlaud's to pick up sand and cement to enable boy-devil Hadrian to repair the leaking flashings 'twixt shed and chateau side wall (amazing how I get sidetracked with totally unimportant detail when scribing - mind you, having said that, the issue of a leaky shed roof has been bugging moi for a couple of years now, so it's actually quite important, especially as part of our wood stash and, more significantly, my beloved Beemer motorbike are kept therein).

Bought a fresh baguette (actually its bigger brother, the 'pain') and a couple of small quiche Lorraines from the packed boulangerie at the edge of the busy market square, plus various goodies at the market including home-made cheeses and jam, and Georgie bought a rather natty shoulder bag for just ten euros, rounding off our visit with a coffee on the sunlit terrace of the market square corner caff where Georgie remarked how lucky we were to be living (well, me full-time, she part-time) so near to such a wonderful little French town, so full of interesting and happy-looking people (Georgie's a compulsive people watcher while I, being an amateur artist, tend to specialise in studying the female form, which inevitably gets me into trouble, so I'm trying to give it up by studying men instead, which inevitably creates the wrong impression and gets me into deeper trouble - see what I mean by getting sidetracked with totally unimportant detail?).

So..., having returned home and gobbled fresh bread'n'cheese, we briefly discussed options for what to do in the afternoon. As always, I was keen on the idea of doing absolutely nothing. Georgie, however, had different ideas. At her ladyship's mention of 'garden centre visit' my head slammed into the table, only coming back up again at mention of Clermont Ferrand. A trip there would be a great excuse to give the little-used Mk.2 Golf GTi 16v a darned good thrashing through the numerous hairpin bends and rolling countryside 'twixt home and Crocq (a pretty village on the way), so I started nodding furiously and muttering "yeah, yeah, yeah," despite knowing that the price I'd have to pay for my half hour's driving ecstacy would likely be a visit to some mind-numbingly boring garden centre on the way, but, if I was lucky, maybe there wouldn't be one; unlikely, but worth the risk. So, Clermont it is then (note how much waffle just to get to what should be the start of this posting).

To be honest, I wasn't exactly relishing a trip to Clermont. From my extremely limited knowledge of France, I only knew it to be an industrial blot on the landscape, famous as being the place where Michelin tyres were made (very interesting - I've since discovered that the man who invented this brand was probably only able to do so by being armed with secret inside info about early rubber technology provided by the woman he married, who just happened to be the daughter or niece of that famous Scot, Jockie McIntosh, inventor of the 'mac' - the one you wear, not the one you want to hurl out of the window 'cos it's crashed. I tell you, this blog is a mine of useless information - unless, of course, you're a pub quiz nutter or you're married to someone who suffers from insomnia). Er, where was I? Ah yes... However, my Yankee chum from the next hamlet mentioned some time ago that he'd been pleasantly surprised by discovering that the centre of Clermont features a gaggle of rather charming olde worlde pedestrianised streets with numerous antiquated shops and caffs. So that would be the bit we'd be aiming for.

We approached the outskirts of Clermont by climbing some massive hilly region of spectacular dormant volcanoes at the northern end of the Central Massif mountains, passing through the shadow of the awe-inspiring Puy-de-Dome (4803 ft. high - look it up, it's a belter) and then descending down the other side where the broad vista of Clermont Ferrand and the surrounding countryside spread out before us like a view seen from the driving seat of a landing aeroplane (not that I've ever witnessed a view from such a lofty position). Couple of heart attacks later (I've long forgotten how scary driving in city rush hour traffic can be), we eventually parked up at what appeared to be the town centre. All looked a bit modern to moi so I presumed the Yank had either been lying or had simply confused it with some other town. Then, while I was jumping up and down blowing a fuse on the pavement calling the Yank every name under the rather hot sun, Georgie studied a nearby street map and calmly informed that the old town was just up there on the right. Tantrum slowly subsiding, I followed in her footsteps and arrived at a massive open square, beyond which we spotted the twin towers of the old cathedral (I presume it's a cathedral and I therefore presume Clermont's a city - certainly felt like one, I'll have to check) in the centre of the old town (er, city).

Could bore you (even more) with an account of our enjoyable little amble round Clermont but, instead, I'll let a few piccys do the talking. Suffice it to say that we were hugely impressed with this fascinating city; a marvellous combination of ancient and modern with a wonderfully busy yet laid back atmosphere and a whole host of those typically French pavement caffs that I particularly adore. I even found a newsagent that sold my favourite mag - Classic Bike Guide - the proper English version. Hah, beat that.

Couple of hours later, with the parking meter just about to go into the red, we fired the rorty sporty Golf into life again and headed for home (without spotting a garden centre anywhere!). Passing through Felletin I could have sworn I saw a grazing camel. Strange; I hadn't even sniffed an aperitif. Then an African water buffalo. Pardon? And a llama. And a few donkeys, miniature ponies and an unchained massive gorilla (which thankfully turned out to be fibreglass). Yes, the circus is in town.

Lazing by a luxury hotel pool, sipping pina coladas in palm tree shadows. Bronzing on a white sand beach beneath an azure blue sky and cooling off with a dip into clear turquoise sea. A camel ride over sandy dunes, the Pyramids shimmering in the distant haze, head hammering with a raging hangover and ears still ringing with the awful 'Una Paloma Blanca' warbled by some annoying drunkard at a hideous karaoke session the night before. Ah, the joys of summer hols.

But, alas for Georgie, the summer hols bring none of those delights. Instead, she's been helping me with the annual task of stacking logs in preparation for winter's chilly arrival. And a wonderfully able assistant she's proved to be. Considering her slight build, advancing years and total lack of experience in tasks of heavy manual labour, I must admit I've been highly impressed with her performance. Take yesterday for example. Without a word of complaint she swung into action and single-handedly demolished the huge six feet high pile of logs that had been deposited by Christian and his tractor round the back. Tricky job it was too. She had to start off by clambering to the top of the pile, then pass down individual two feet long heavy logs while I carried out the highly specialised job of stacking.

About halfway through, when the pile had considerably reduced in height, she had to then start slinging distant logs closer to the action. Not an easy job for someone who's used to lifting nothing heavier than a hardback book or an overstuffed make-up bag, especially in the sweltering heat of the mid-day sun. Still, being the gent that I am, I allowed her an occasional cooling off period. A couple of times I even fetched her a glass of water as she seemed close to collapsing. But, bless, she soldiered on. Finished the job at around 5pm which just gave her time to do a bit of weeding before preparing supper. Poor dear can hardly move this morning. Better go and make her another tea and see if she needs any help in getting out of bed. Ooh, it's all go.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sZa26_esLBE

Collected Georgie at Limoges airport on Saturday. Lovely sunny day, very hot. Normally whizz straight back from the airport (75 miles - 1 hr 50 mins) but this time decided to have a leisurely stroll around Limoges before really hitting the road. Ambled around the narrow, largely pedestrianised streets of the historical central area. Georgie hadn't been there before and was somewhat surprised by the amount of flashy shoe shops. Had a devil of a job keeping her moving (make mental note not to take Don there). Lost her at one point when she stopped to give some damned scrounger (who's probably nowhere near as skint as us) a handful of coins. Said she felt sorry for his dog and kitten. Kept her in my sights after that. Rounded off our little excursion with a coffee in a sunlit square beneath a shady brolly, then headed for home via the supermarshay at Aubusson.

Lucky with the weather on Sunday too. Another blisteringly hot day. Took things easy before heading for the annual antiques street market at Felletin. Had a gentle walk round eyeing up the wares. As usual, Georgie was taken with various old chairs despite us having enough of the things already. Reckons it's a subconscious obsession because her back isn't that good. She spotted a ghastly looking item with a flowery patterned cover which rather took her fancy. Moved her swiftly on. Later we saw some mad woman wobbling up the street carrying the hideous thing home. Somehow Georgie concluded that this demonstration of total insanity implied not only that I had missed out on a highly desirable and immensely valuable bargain, but also that I haven't the foggiest idea when it comes to antiques. Well, maybe not. But, thanks to a lifetime of surrounding myself with the stuff, at least I know junk when I see it.

Couple of items tickled my fancy though: a small book of deliciously awful old French wallpaper swatches costing an astronomical 30 euros (about 25 quid), which I didn't buy, and an old glass calibrated jar for measuring the exact quantity of oil needed for different two-stroke petroil mixtures costing a very reasonable 5 euros, which I did buy. Even though I didn't need it I thought it would make a rather spiffing beer glass - us old bikers like a bit of oil flavouring (glass is currently on the kitchen table containing a rose given to Georgie by Isabelle when we nipped round for a few drinks last night). Rounded off the junk, sorry, antiques market excursion with a tasty plate of chips and a welcome cool beer beneath the shady green canopy of the ever-popular grub stall where we caught local insurance agent monsieur Petit knocking off after an exhausting ten hour stint of barbecueing sausages. Must admit the poor chap looked a shadow of his former self as he staggered home for a medicinal Ricard or ten.

Finished off Sunday with a most enjoyable swim at Lake Marie. Well, it would have been enjoyable had Georgie not deposited the rucksack on top of a wasps' nest as I was busily tying Sprocket to a tree. Only became aware of this unfortunate incident as she and Jock gave painful yelps and ran from the scene with Georgie smacking her head and shouting "bees, bees!". Eventually caught up with them and checked the damage. Georgie had four painful stings on her face, neck and shoulder, and Jock had one on his back where a dead wasp was buried in his fur. All rather traumatic. Still, being a proper bloke, I wasn't going to let a minor occupational hazard ruin our fun so I insisted we complete our mission by having a swim and enjoying a coffee or two that I'd put much effort into preparing before driving home in the evening sun.

Ahem, perhaps at this point I should mention the following just in case anyone thinks I was acting selfishly: as a highly-decorated, ex-patrol leader in the Cubs and Scouts, with in-depth medical training (and a couple of badges to prove), and obviously being officer material due to my high ranking (not to mention military parentage), I am a natural at dealing with any kind of emergency, be it medical or otherwise. Therefore my instant reaction to the wasp attack of being seen to bravely ignore the distress of two members of my patrol could well have saved their lives. In such situations, the worst thing anyone can do is panic. Unless of course, it's the leader who's been attacked. In which case the troops should make every effort to alleviate stress by immediately issuing cuddles, jam sarnies, lashings of scotch'n'dry, huge amounts of sympathy and a promise to do all the cooking and housework for an indefinite period, i.e. forever.

Have since looked up bee and wasp stings on the jolly old internet and they can, of course, be fatal. If you have ten or more, one is advised to visit hospital (what if you only have eight or nine?). Remedies include bicarbonate of soda and calamine lotion (neither of which we, or anyone else for that matter, ever carry with us). Advice is to calm the patient down and encourage relaxation. Then there's the complication of ascertaining whether the blighters were bees, wasps or this new form of African bee which are apparently hitting Europe. And some people are allergic to stings. However, it's not the stings that kill, it's apparently the internal inflamation of the airways that result in an inability to breathe.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2rpBAZEVHmI

Georgie's arriving tomorrow.

Er..., slight problem: I haven't even started to tidy up. There's a week's worth of dishes piled high in the sink and stacked on the cooker and stove, all waiting to be scraped with a hammer and chisel then washed and dried, the loo needs scrubbing, stairs need sweeping..., ooh, a woman's work is never done.

However, I did manage to change the sheets on 'the pit' yesterday. Think they've been on there for about a month or more (apparently it's two months). And I did some washing - this time without flooding the kitchen floor. Just as well I did too. Weather broke last night. Big storms. Thunder, lightning, wind and much needed rain. Noticeably chillier today.

Trouble with storms is that they really scare the dogs. Jock hides under the bed (he's too short to jump up), whimpering and shivering, while Sprock paws and scratches like crazy as he tries to hide under my pillow. Dribbled all over the clean sheets and panted right in my face for what seemed like hours. Couldn't sling the mutts out of the boudoir and shut the door due to it being jammed open with a stack of plasterboards. Wasn't allowed to get any kip until the storm passed. Eventually nodded off at about four.

Felt a bit fuzzy all day. Still, managed to stack all the short logs under cover in the shed. Long ones still to do. Crikey! 6pm already! Better get those dishes done. And the loo. And stairs. Then dogwalk and cook supper. And I suppose I ought to have a shower and shave. Never enough time.

Hot. Very hot. Been like this for about ten days now. According to neighbours Guy and Katrine (the Parisiennes who own, and holiday in, the little house behind us) it's been averaging 33 degrees. However, yesterday and today it's rocketed up to 36. But apparently it's storms tomorrow. So that could be the end of high summer. Typical, Georgie's arriving on Saturday!

Had the windows open day and night for over a week. Been kipping with just a single sheet. The mutts hate it. Keep wandering off into cool dark corners, panting. Step outside anywhere near mid-day and you end up as a puddle. Bit of a bind as I have to stack the logs that arrived for winter about a week ago. Been doing a bit now and again but have to keep stopping for a drink or ten and yet another change of teeshirt. Must have sweated gallons. And that pile of logs on the dried up front lawn seems just as high as ever. Should be out there now I suppose but it really is too darned hot.

Been alternating log stacking with cutting and fitting plasterboards for what could one day become a bathroom (hah, dream on babe!). The sweltering heat makes progress painfully slow. And the damned boards are so ridiculously big and awkward to move around, especially when working solo. Then when you finally get one on the floor, ready to trim to fit, sweat drips onto the surface causing bumps on the plaster and sweaty elbows and knees stick to the surface. Nightmare. Getting there though. But very slowly.

After yesterday's exertions I decided to give the dogs a walk up 'the swamp'. Perhaps 'the bog' would be a better title as it's really just a marshy field. Impossible to traverse in winter and, as we discovered yesterday, still surprisingly boggy in summer (ever seen a Westie with a black bottom half and a green neck from rolling in cowsh?). No crocs but loads of mozzies. But the effort's worthwhile as there's a lovely little stream at the other side. Perfect for cooling off hot, smelly dogs.

Stopped off on the way home for an hour's painting of that 'lightning tree'. The cattle have now moved on to an adjacent field and the big water tanker trailer thingy which was parked right in front of the tree has gone with them. So I had an uninterrupted view. However, interruptions came from Jock winding up the cattle by charging and barking (ooh, he's brave when they're behind a gate). Being white, I presume the cattle think Jock's one of their own. And I presume Jock thinks the cattle are rather big Westies. All rather amusing, but not when you're trying to work. Sprocket meanwhile goes bonkers too, barking and leaping even though he's tied to the car. I have to tie him up because there are sheep in the field across the lane. He knows they're there and he'd be at them given half a chance.

Working in such conditions is challenging for an amateur artist, especially when you're about to add a delicate highlight to a sunlit branch and the dogs start barking and you find yourself joining in the cacophony by shouting "JOCK! SPROCK! NO! EFFIN' SHUT UP THE BOTH OF YOU! NOISY BAAAASTARDS!" as you hurl a paintbrush in their general direction. Quite shatters the peace and quiet of a beautifully idyllic setting.

Planned on knocking off at around 7.30 but the evening sun was doing amazing things to the tree's trunk and branches. Bright orange highlights flickered and danced like Christmas tree lights. Every time I tried to capture a likeness, it changed. And the pine needles and foreground grasses kept changing too. In the end I just gave up and gave the dogs a quick walk down the bottom field and back. Finished off with a swig of coffee from the Thermos and a fag while watching the sun dip below the horizon. I'll come back tomorrow.

Then went home. Church bells clanged nine as I sat outside with a large scotch and dry on the rocks watching the evening dim. Another sweaty night beneath a single sheet. All too soon it'll be two duvets and that sheepskin flying jacket again.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vc2Bm5IXGh4

Another rock'n'roll star bites the dust. The great Les Paul - 'the father of the electric guitar'. Passed away yesterday aged 94.

As the inventor of the famous Les Paul 'leccy axes, he almost single-handedly created the rock music sound. Les Paul twangers read like who's who of the industry and include Page, Clapton, Hendrix and Townshend, to name but a few. And, as if inventing the 'leccy guitar wasn't enough, he also invented the basics of multi-track recording.

I know nothing about guitars but I gather from a quick bit of research that Les Paul's revolutionary design featured a central 4x2 block of wood known as 'The Log', onto which he attached a neck, strings and pick-ups. He did this way back in 1941 when he played in an orchestra. Had he used 'The Log' on stage he'd have been laughed straight off it so he disguised it as a conventional guitar by adding a couple of non-functional curved 'sides'. He further refined his invention by enabing the player to alter tones and resonance by twiddling various knobs; a jazzy sound one minute and a heavy metal scream the next.

Apparently Pete Townshend is recognised as perhaps the strongest devotee of Les Paul guitars (no, completely wrong - I've since had botty smacked and been corrected), especially the top of the range Gold De-Luxe model. Wonder if it was these that he famously smashed up on stage in The Who's heyday? Somehow I doubt it.

Other fascinating info (well, it's facinating to moi):
In 1948 Les had a near fatal car accident in which his right arm was completely smashed. Doctors managed to save it but had to set it in a permanently locked position. When they asked Les what position that should be, he said "90 degrees" so he could still play his guitar. Les was godfather to 'Space Cowboy' Steve Miller who was given his first guitar lesson by the great man when he was only eight. Lucky boy. And Jeff Beck once said he nicked more licks off Les than he cares to remember. Learn something new every day, eh?

Today Heaven'll be rocking.

Considering I have little idea what goes on in our tiny hamlet, it should come as no great surprise that I haven't the foggiest idea what goes on in the galaxy. However, tonight was different. Georgie rang earlier to tell me to be on the lookout for a shower of meteorites illuminating the night sky, possibly for hours on end.

So, suffering from the twin disappointments of a Scotland footy drubbing by Norway and a lucky England escape against Holland, I ventured up the back lane for a late evening dogwalk beneath a starry sky in eager anticipation of witnessing the best fireworks display since the new Millennium celebrations.

By the time I reached the old granite cross, I'd seen a grand total of just one solitary shooting star which had lasted barely half a second. Brilliant. Almost worth the effort. Unfortunately I appeared to have lost movement in my neck which was now locked solid in the 'up' position. Good for spotting the odd shooting star but not so good for watching where one's going. Inadvertently kicked Jock a couple of times and tripped over a fallen branch.

Back home, my score had doubled. Two shooting stars. Not exactly a shower but certainly better than none. Attempted to make a cuppa whilst facing the kitchen ceiling. Turned out rather well considering. I suspect the kitchen table's now swimming in hot water, milk and sugar but no matter, I'll clean up tomorrow.

Just looked out the window and, buggerre moi, in the space of about five minutes I spotted four more little shooters, all going from north to south. So that's six in all. Quite some shower.

Rang up Georgie and excitedly informed her of this magnificent spectacle. She seemed rather impressed but slightly disappointed that she couldn't see any stars in downtown Putney due to those infernal sodium streetlights. Then she said that the really interesting thing about the shooting stars was that each one was only the size of a grey Austin van.

I thought this rather odd.

"A grey Austin van?"
"Pardon?"
"Each shooting star is only the size of a grey Austin van?"
"No, you blithering idiot, a grain of sand. Each star is only the size of... a... grain... of... sand."
"Ah right..., er..., quite small then."

Sometimes we have the wierdest conversations.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RWK8GgWD4uA

Had a fun week-end going through my bloggeau. Took ages. Binned a few of the rubbish postings (that's not to say that the ones that remain are a whole lot better!) and spent many a happy hour re-reading old ones. Amazing how things change over time.

Take my 'Desert Island Discs' posting from about a year ago for example. Can't imagine how some of the tracks got in there. So I've just binned the lot and started again.

After making a final selection, I naturally had second thoughts. And indeed third. Nightmare. The only solution was to cheat. Chose twenty instead of the permitted eight. Then felt guilty. But I've now decided to play the game properly.

So, after much chopping and changing, I've finally managed to narrow it down to these..., I think... ('course, if I repeated the exercise tomorrow it'd probably be entirely different).

Four Strong Winds - Neil Young
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jIc5h2bfYyU

In Dreams - Roy Orbison
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E4CQy33GDJ8

Friday I'm in Love - The Cure
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BFnIP2NT5Yc

This Dream of You - Bob Dylan
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rRnyNdr2IHk

Be My Baby - The Ronettes
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0PAllQBDVJw

Concierto de Aranjuez - Rodrigo
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RxwceLlaODM

Madame George - Van Morrison (not on YouTube)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3rxnGH8S2Nk

Mike Hailwood's Honda-6
(I could listen to this music for days on end!)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iBrb93O_Xg0
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pAYcqSTVBY4
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ymT91LupA6M

Been really hot this week. Hot enough to send everyone indoors for a couple of hours at lunchtime and warm enough in the evenings to think about going up to Lake Marie (as I call it) for a quick dip before supper. Thought about going up there most evenings this week but never quite got round to it. Then yesterday I suddenly realised it was the last day of July (already?!), which, of course, meant the following day would be the first day of August - the day when France packs up and goes on holiday for three or four weeks. So yesterday evening would be my last chance of enjoying a quiet and leisurely swim before the crowds arrive.

Leave it another day and it'll be impossible to find an empty spot by the lakeside. The place'll be crawling with swimmers, boaters, shrieking kids and, worst of all, dogs. So you won't be able to take Jock and Sprocket. And you'll have to go through that stupid routine of attempting to get your knickers off and cozzy on whilst clutching a towel around your midriff in one hand and Sprock's lead in another which means you've run out of hands to get your kit off so you'll have to use your teeth as a thousand eyes stare at you across a crowded beach in eager anticipation of seeing you fall over in a crumpled heap with arse and crown jewels exposed to all and sundry resulting in howls of derision or arrest for indecency. Best grab this last opportunity and get up there immediately. No time like the present. Tomorrow will be too late.

Dug out my old cozzy, grabbed a towel, half filled the Thermos with coffee, slung the dogs in the Golf and headed west into the evening sun. Even though it was the day before the French holiday season officially began I had visions of arriving there and finding the place swarming with early holidaymakers. Luckily it was almost deserted. Brilliant. Settled into a favourite spot, set Jock loose, tied Sprock to a tree, donned cozzy without need for tricky towel routine and took the plunge. Water really warm. Had a marvellous swim. Then sat on the bank with a fag and a coffee, idly watching the odd dragonfly zig-zagging across the sparkling waves as a tiny boat chugged away in the distance. Half an hour passed in what seemed like a minute. Dogs were getting restless so we packed up and left. Headed for home with the sun and lake in the rear view mirror. Calm before the storm. Crowds arrive tomorrow. August already. Summer's almost over.

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