FROG BLOG

Monday lunchtime. Took the dogs for a gentle amble up the granite cross. Just before we reached it I spotted a car through the bushes, parked at the end. Hunters. Just managed to get Sprock on his lead before he realised, but Jock trotted on ahead, ears pricked, curious to know what's up and totally ignoring my command to come back. Two hunting dogs confronted him. Jock never backs down. Hunter suddenly realised what was happening. Dogfight exploded in an instant. One dog clamped his jaws into Jock's neck, the other bit into his rear. Sprock was going apeshit, itching to attack. Hunter quickly grabbed the front dog by the scruff of the neck and lifted him clean off the ground with Jock in his jaws and rear dog still locked on. I was itching to run up and kick the rear bastard but couldn't - Sprock would have got stuck in and made matters worse. About five long seconds later the hunter managed to get the front dog to let go as he battered him to the ground. Then the back one. Jock ran free. I turned and headed for home, dragging Sprock who was still facing the war zone and breathing fire.

Back home, I checked Jock's injuries. Bit of a cut on his neck but couldn't see any damage to the rear. Washed the bite mark and dressed with Tea Tree oil. About ten minutes later the two hunters knocked on the door. Very apologetic. Asked if Jock was okay. Told 'em he seemed alright; small cut but quite shaken. They then said if he turned poorly I was to contact the mayor because they were good friends of his (I took it this implied they'd re-imburse for the vet's bill if a visit there was necessary, but I could have been wrong). Told 'em I didn't think a trip to the vet would be needed but I'd see how it goes.

That afternoon Jock spent most of the time sat behind the kitchen stove, quiet and shocked. Refused to come for the regular evening walk. Thought about not doing one but Sprock insisted. Left Jock at home. Returned half an hour later. Jock appeared from the indoor shed room so at least he was walking. Wouldn't eat though. Lit the kitchen fire for him in the evening, in case he felt chilled. Thought it best he kipped there overnight but he climbed the stairs and sat in his cage by my bed. For some reason he wouldn't lie down. Just sat there. Brought him up a bowl of water. Still he just sat there. Sat with him, stroking. Couldn't sleep. I eventually nodded off at about four. Woke at seven. Jock still sitting there in his cage.

Spent most of Tuesday just keeping an eye on Jock. In the afternoon I noticed him licking his inner back leg. Tried to have a closer look but he wouldn't co-operate. Eventually saw a bite mark just to the right of his willy. Damn. Hadn't noticed it on my first inspection. Impossible to get anywhere near it due to Jock's growling. Clearly painful. However, that evening he insisted on coming for a dogwalk. Took things easy, just a simple stroll. Didn't seem to be limping so I guess there's no broken bones. And he even had a bit of supper (with sliced sausage as a treat). Sat in his cage again all night. Again, I hardly slept.

Checked him again this morning. From the little I can see, it seems quite red, dark red, on his tum. Obviously still very painful. Rang the vet at about eleven. Appointment this afternoon at two. That's in an hour's time. Jock's under my desk. Hasn't been downstairs at all today. Am trying to work out how to get him to the car. Dog collar and lead and simply drag him down the stairs. Can't lift him. Hurts. Am not looking forward to this trip one bit.

P.S. - 4.30pm. Just returned from vet. No great problem. No holed skin, just bruising. Two antibiotic jabs, one haircut around bruising and one application of iodine. Sounds simple but took two of us to hold the little blighter down. Issued with a bottle of iodine and instructions to apply twice a day. Oh yeah? Something tells moi that Jock may not be entirely over-the-moon with that idea. Anyway, am now not so worried as I was ce matin. Bill? 70 euros. Used to be the equivalent of 40 quid but is now around 67. Still, never mind, sausages tonight lads.

Ain't no nosey parker but I'm always fascinated by those photos that my honourable fellow bloggers sometimes load up showing their computery work areas. They're so much more neat and tidy and modern and hi-teccy than my scruffy set-up!

I've always been far too embarrassed to show the world my digital-age, nerve centre hidden away in a dusty old corner of the slobbing around room 'cos, to put it bluntly, it's such a bleedin' tip. But there again, thinking about it, I like working in a tip. Always have. And to be honest, as far as tips go, this has to be one of the best, especially on a day like today with the windows wide open and sunlight streaming in. It may not suit everyone (an understatement if ever there was one!) but it'll certainly do me.

A wee guided tour of the slobbing around room ('lounge' sounds far too formal for a pit such as this)... Desk in corner facing east. To the west is the telly-watching settee (I slob on the right, Sprock lays on the left - but always nicks my spot when I go downstairs to make a cuppa - and Jock generally lays under the coffee table). To the north you'll no doubt notice the lack of progress with planned new bathroom. Face south and you'll see the magnificent view (actually you won't 'cos you'll be blinded by sunlight).

So there you go; first the kitchen and now the (sort of) lounge: the two main living rooms of a bohemian hermit recluse. If nothing else they'll hopefully make you feel better about your interior decor, fitments and general standards of domesticity. And if you're a burglar, as you can see, forget it.

Pretty: the pink flowery bush thing that appears to be doing rather well despite my infrequent activity with the watering can.

Awful: the smelly little rebel who flatly refuses to accept that Westies are cute little fluffy things that were only invented to sell more calendars.

For a bohemian hermit recluse comme moi, the thought of having guests is absolutely terrifying. So when old college chumette and fellow blogger 'countrybumpkin' confirmed last week that she'd be visiting for a few days, I immediately flew into a blind panic. So much to do! - clear flies and cobwebs out of the big loft room, make up bed, clean kitchen (an impossible task), scrub loo with disinfectant, make washbasin area fit for human useage (or as close as possible), sweep stairs, sling out dog beds and blankets for an airing, open all windows and attempt to get rid of overpowering dog smells, get some grub and vino in, shake tobacco, breadcrumbs and dog hairs off settee blankets..., the list is endless.

I knew it'd take days (or weeks - maybe years!) to make the place vaguely presentable. So, as she'd be arriving on Wednesday, I decided to begin work last Sunday. Typically though, I left it 'til Wednesday morning before getting stuck in. Worked like a maniac for a couple of hours then got sidetracked by doing some washing. Halfway through hanging rags on line (taking advantage of rare sunshine), chumette arrived. Luckily she's been before so wasn't surprised by distinct lack of preparatory work. Stayed for the full three days (tough cookie). Drove off this morning for Limoges airport and home after risking a shower before departing (really tough cookie).

Very relaxing three days. Extremely lucky with the weather. Glorious sunshine throughout. She's a country lassie with dogs so was happy (I think) to be dragged along on every dogwalk. Did the granite cross route in the mornings followed by the lightning tree, bottom stream and Magnat reservoir runs in the evenings. First time I've been to the reservoir for months. Amazed at how the water level has dropped over summer. Sandy beach areas now exposed. Rain needed soon. In-between dogwalks I dragged her 'round Aubusson on Thursday and Felletin market on Friday. Strange: most times I show visitors the delightful sights of these two fine old towns, it always seems to rain. Not this time though. As I said, extremely lucky with the weather.

Back home, my hardy guest passed some of the time relaxing with a book beneath a sunshade while I, somewhat rudely, took afternoon naps. However, I compensated for my obvious inadequacy in the perfect host department by magnificent displays of cordon bleu cookery skills. First evening, I opened a pack of frozen paella (you may mock but it was a major breakthrough when I recently discovered how to heat this stuff, thus making it almost edible). Second, pork chops, fried eggs and fresh mushrooms picked from the garden (guest displayed noticeable lack of confidence in my opinion that said funghi wasn't poisonous - fear of death eventually evaporated after vast quantities of vin rouge). Guest appeared to be pleasantly surprised by still being alive the following morning. Third evening, I did my piece de resistance: chicken curry with rice and beans. Brilliant. Well, probably not brilliant but, again, lashings of vin rouge clouded judgment.

Perhaps the highlight of her stay was our visit to my 'rebel caff' in Felletin after Friday's market. This is a little-known (and I hope it stays that way) hostelry which is also a 'tabac' (fag shop), run by a couple of marvellous and typically French rebels who allow customers to smoke at certain times (usually when there are no minors around) in defiance of that daft no-smoking law (yes, I know this is a contentious issue but, as I've said before, I honestly believe smoking should be permitted in tabac caffs but not ordinary caffs or other places - as Sarkozy promised before being elected, changing his mind immediately after). Er..., just remembered she's a non-smoker so maybe she didn't think it as much a highlight as moi.

As I said, guest departed this morning. Gave her directions for the airport by traversing the streets of central Limoges. These are somewhat complicated so she probably ended up lost in some dark, dead-end backstreet and consequently missed her flight.

Last of the swallows has just flown south, kitchen stove's lit, evenings are drawing in, must be autumn.

Sat outside yesterday soiree after a quick dogwalk supping my usual medicinal scotch aperitif and noticed the sun setting directly in line with the chateau. Ambled to the calendar and checked the date: 21st September. Autumn solstice (or whatever it's called) - the day when the sun rises and sets halfway down the horizons. From here on in until March, that jolly old soleil will remain out front, no longer disappearing round the back. Yup, autumn's here.

Leaves are beginning to change colour and a few have fallen already. Shall soon have to put my green paints away and dig out yellow, orange and red. Noticed quite a bit of red around lately. Not just leaves but also berries (and a strange pinky-red flowery thing I spotted in a hedge). Rose hips and holly. Some of the holly trees are covered with berries. Never seen so many. At the moment they're orange but they'll soon change to bright red. Apples too. There's a tree out the back laden with pommes rouge. Seems only weeks ago it was covered with blossom. My, how tempus fugits. Soon be Christmas.

Had an exhausting day yesterday (Sunday). Paid a couple of tax (house rates?) bills plus a water bill. Such exertions may not drain the energy of ordinary humanoids but to a lazy bohemian hermit recluse comme moi they're positively shattering.

Firstly, I had to find the bills (took ages - I'd put them in a safe place), then clear a space on the kitchen table (not as easy as it sounds - it meant doing stacks of washing up, sponging the table and relocating various books and magazines to piles upstairs), then find my pen (don't like Biros so I use a fountain pen - again took ages to find and, needless to say, when eventually located, it had run out of ink), then find that elusive bottle of ink (eventually found it lurking in the back of a desk drawer - could have sworn it was in the drawer of the lounge table; well, when I say 'lounge' I really mean 'indoor shed'), then read and re-read payment instructions to make sure payment would be made automatically without the need to send cheques (written in French - always tres confusant), then triple check that I was about to sign and date the correct box (always nerve wracking - one mistake could prove fatal), then, with a sigh, remove myself from my kitchen chair, assume the vertical and amble over to the van Gogh kitchen calendar to figure out the date (I never have the foggiest idea what the date is), then tear off the three individual paying-in slips from the bills (the first two were perforated but the third one wasn't, thereby resulting in a paper tear and a need to find some Sellotape and a pair of scissors - again, took ages), then carefully put the three slips in the envelopes provided (making sure the addresses were visible through the envelope windows - an old-timer comme moi can easily put a slip in a window envelope facing the wrong way so the window's blank), then find three stamps of the correct value (don't know what that value is but I presume it to be the red ones I eventually found hiding in a dark and dusty corner of my wallet - if they're of insufficient value they won't get delivered, payment won't be made and I'll be doomed), then, finally, place the envelopes in a prominent postion so I'd remember to post them (put them on top of the coffee jar). As I said, exhausting and shattering.

Mission accomplished, I then recovered from the ordeal by relaxing in front of the telly with a cuppa in readiness for ogling the Italian grand prix. Saw the start and first couple of laps then must have dozed off (cars just ain't as exciting as bikes). Woke up on the last lap with the commentator screaming "Hamilton's spun! His race is over!". Calm down man, calm down. Switched the telly off, went outside and took a few rags off the line (forgot to mention I'd done some washing before tackling the bills - no wonder I was fattygayed). By then it was about fiveish (French time) and the dogs were telling me it was time for walkies. Shoved them in the car and set off for the lightning tree walk. Couple of minutes later, turned around and returned home, picked up the three forgotten envelopes and set off again. Passed a couple of hunters in luminous pink caps with rifles over their shoulders by the roadside in the lightning tree area so decided to go further afield. Headed for 'the high hill' near Pierrefitte - it's that little triangular patch of green on the distant horizon in front of the house.

Arrived at Pierrefitte, parked up and listened for sounds of gunfire or barking dogs. All was quiet so unloaded the dogs and set off for the hill. Half an hour later we were at the top and enjoying the view. Well, to be more accurate, I was enjoying the view (on a clear day you can even see our house) while the dogs were totally ignoring it, busying themselves by digging for field mice. Well, to be more accurate, Sprocket was doing the digging while Jock just sniffed around, covered in newly-dug earth. Amazing how little appreciation they have for gloriously sunny views. After a few minutes they got a bit bored so we headed back down and drove home. Stopped off on the way to check out a view that I'm thinking about painting. Looked really good with white cattle against green. Spotted some pretty wild flowers. Haven't a clue what they are but Georgie'll know (perennial sweet peas apparently). Eventually arrived home as the church bells clanged seven. Was just about to get out of the car when I noticed three envelopes on the dashboard. Drat. Set off again and posted 'em. Mind like a sieve.

P.S. Forgot..., it's 'memory like a sieve'.

This is a tick. Found it attached to Sprocket's neck this morning. Must have picked it up on one of yesterday's walks.

Biology lesson... They start off tiny - about the size of a flea - and look like a cross between a miniscule spider and a very small ant. They hang around on vegetation such as blades of grass or weeds, waiting to jump onto a passing animal, or human (I've had a couple!). Then they bite into flesh and start sucking blood. At this stage they miraculously, fascinatingly and quite disgustingly develop a shiny, grey, ever-expanding blood sac which extends to about twenty or thirty times their original size. From personal observation, the average drinking session lasts about one to four days. Then they drop off. Dunno what they do then. Probably just laze around in the sun, totally immobilised. The crows and hedgehogs must love 'em.

I digress...

Sprock's very good 'cos he allows you to pull 'em off without complaining but he always insists on a quick sniff afterwards. Jock, on the other hand, hates anyone going near his ticks and will squirm, wriggle and yelp in furious protest until you give up. I'm no quitter so I often grab the little blighter by the scruff of the neck with one hand and then attempt tick removal with t'other; not an easy task - great risk of getting bitten or horribly scratched, I have the scars to prove it.

To complicate matters, ticks usually seem to embed themselves in Jock's forehead. If he kept still, removal would be fairly straightforward, but there's always the risk of removing just the tick's blood sac, leaving the head left embedded in his skull. Goes without saying that fingers then get smothered with blood. Yucky. Sometimes the only thing to do is to wait for the tick to drop off when the little vampire's had its fill. Trouble is, one never knows the drop off point. Inadvertently trodden on a few wandering around the house.

Of course, prevention is the best solution. This is achieved by giving the dogs regular, monthly, anti-tick medication - a quick squirt from a capsule of liquid directly onto the skin between shoulder blades. Trouble is, it's expensive and I'm not a great fan of drugs or chemicals. Doesn't seem natural. Doubt if many of the other dogs around here are protected in this way. Georgie vehemently disagrees though and insists I dish out the medicine. Keep forgetting. I'll give 'em a dose after this posting.

Another ten pictures. Another ten thousand words.

Had a great dogwalk this evening. Very sunny. Up Pierrefitte. It's a tiny hamlet with just a couple of farmhouses and a few barns in the shadow of a distant hill. There's an old farmer up there with an old tractor and an old dog. Still does his hay bales oblong-shaped, tied with string. Cares not two hoots for this modern, circular, plastic shrink-wrapped stuff. My kinda guy. Bumped into him towards the end of our stroll as he was busily herding some cattle out of a field and down towards his farm. He knows me and the dogs now so he gave us a friendly wave before tapping the side of his forehead when one of his cows turned the wrong way on exiting the field. Anyway, jumping the gun here. The walk started with an amble along... ah, never mind. They say a picture's worth a thousand words, so here's ten grand's worth (only goes halfway round the circuit - more to follow in next posting)...

For those of you of a houseproud (not to mention nervous) disposition, turn away now. The following couple of snaps could cause serious palpitations, not to mention feelings of nausea and an overwhelming desire to drag out that feather duster and begin tickling anything within reach...

Yes, my/our kitchen. The engine room of the chateau. Or, more specifically, the cuisine fireplace. Looks fine from the front (debatable), but viewed from the right hand side one may notice a slight imperfection - namely, a bloody great hole. This unwanted ventilation orifice (it's actually an exhaust pipe hole for a wood burning stove which should be where the mini cooker presently stands instead of where it currently resides in the middle of the fireplace, but the recent installation of massively expensive re-wiring and the wrong positioning of the fuse box means we have little - none in fact - room for manoeuooverrre) only became apparent a couple of weeks ago when the biscuit tin lid covering it (installed by a previous inhabitant) mysteriously fell to earth under the influence of gravity. Been meaning to return said lid back to its original position for quite some time but lethargy, DIY incompetence and the lulling into a false sense of security by recent meteorological clemency (i.e. no need for a fire) dictated otherwise.

Winter's a'comin', wood's ready for the fire, time to knuckle down and cover that hole so the chateau doesn't fill with smoke the moment the fire's lit. So today I spent most of my time searching for that elusive silicon adhesive gun thingy to stick the biscuit tin lid back into position. Couldn't find it anywhere. Turned the place upside down. Twice. Nay, trois fois. By late apres-midi I was ready to stuff an old rag in there instead. But, as is always the way, I eventually found it at the eleventh hour, hiding under a rolled carpet atop an old box of LPs. Joy unconfined.

Then went to the top of the stove to pick up the biscuit tin lid. Wasn't there. Drat. Searched everywhere again. No success. During this fourth or fifth search de la maison I eventually found a metal 'chimney plug' - an item which proper tradesmen would use instead of a stupid biscuit tin lid.

Decided to do the job properly. This meant, means rather, chipping out the old hole, re-creating a new hole with sand and cement that exactly matches the plug diameter, allowing it to set and then inserting said 'metal plug'. East peasy. But, alas, not for an incompetent DIY joker comme moi. I'll start tomorrow. Maybe.

P.S. - For anyone still recovering from the shock of witnessing my/our somewhat less than des. res. cuisine standards, please bear in mind two things: 1) I/we am/are contemplating a basic form of modernisation at some time in the future, and 2) I'm a self-confessed lazy bohemian who firmly believes that kitchen cookers were invented primarily for the boiling of motorcycle chains in tins of molybdenum grease.

I call both tree and painting 'The Lightning Tree' because I wrongly assumed the reason one of its main branches is hanging off was that it had been hit by lightning. The farmer has since explained that the break was actually caused by his cattle's over-enthusiasm in using the low horizontal branch as a scratching post. Perhaps I should re-name the painting 'The Scratching Tree' but it doesn't sound quite as dramatic. Anyway, incorrect as it may be, the name has stuck and it's now joined the ranks of 'the cemetery run', 'down the stream', 'the granite cross' etc. as a dogwalk reference.

The tree itself is not much to look at. However, when lit by the evening sun its branches turn bright orangey-red and contrast brilliantly against a clear blue sky. It was this dramatic transformation that I set out to capture. Took some time but I think I've finally done it. If not, I've certainly done it to the best of my limited abilities. Finished it yesterday evening (would have finished earlier but the farmer moved his cattle into the field when the painting was only half finished and they've only recently been moved on to pastures new).

Now, what's next...?

Typical Saturday night. Noshed supper in front of the telly. Hadn't a clue what was on. Flicked through a few channels. Spotted a Beatles night. Watched a couple of fascinating documentaries. Then must have nodded off. Woke up in the middle of 'Help'. Music's great but the film's rubbish, so nodded off again. Woke up at about 2am. Gave the dogs a moonlit stroll. Then made a cuppa and checked out a few blogs. Noticed Missy Mouse had watched the Beatles progs too. Inspired her to list her fave Beatles' track. Almost impossible to do, so she listed three. Thought I'd give it a try. Yup, it's a tricky task. So many gems to choose from. Eventually plumped for this little-known track on the B side of Paperback Writer. Came out in '66 I think. The year they recorded their Revolver album. Or was it Rubber Soul? No matter, they were both brilliant. Certainly their most prolific period and arguably their finest hour. Or perhaps I should say 2 minutes 50 seconds.

P.S. Am adding this monstrosity http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kGESxjqHf7E to show how far the Beatles moved pop music forward in just five years. Well, somebody had to.

Following a week of glorious sunshine and clear blue skies, during which it seemed to just get hotter and hotter, the weather finally broke yesterday. Welcome to September. Mind you, we couldn't have planned it better because yesterday was the day Georgie flew back to the Cesspit after her all too brief ten day summer break.

Kicking off the day with a sunny dogwalk, we noticed a few ominous clouds out west towards Limoges. By the time Georgie had finished packing and we'd hit the road, the clouds were on us. Half an hour later the windscreen wipers were on full speed as we crawled through a torrential downpour at Bourganeuf. As I said, we couldn't have planned it better - buckets of much needed rain for parched fields and gardens, and a perfect end to Georgie's hols. After all, there's nothing worse than having it the other way round: rainy holiday then sun on departure.

Despite the gnawing feeling of inevitability that her summer break was almost over, we had a most enjoyable last few days. As usual, I can't remember exactly what we did but I seem to recall Georgie having a spiffing time washing and drying dirty old clothes and dog blankets, then getting stuck into a spot of digging and weeding before knocking up some splendid suppers.

Naturally I tried to help occasionally but experience dictates it's best to keep out of the way when a woman's slaving 'cos, as all us blokes know, we're bound to do it wrong. Take cooking, par example. On Friday soiree, when I was creating one of my spag bol specialities, her ladyship comes up and tells me I'm not quite doing it right and then proceeds to pour gallons of olive oil on the browning mince. Standing there in open-mouthed disbelief at this blatant act of sabotage, I made the fatal error of questioning her culinary skills as well as her sanity. This inevitably led to a somewhat heated discussion followed by head chef pulling rank, stamping floor, pouring the offending liquid into a pot and eventually continuing with creating his latest masterpiece in a bit of a huff while helper retired to jardin with a chilled vin 'rosay' aperitif. As it turned out, much to her amazement, the meal was almost edible. On Saturday evening, during a brief social visit to Isabelle's, we sought expert opinion regarding the touchy subject of adding, or not adding, olive oil to browning mince. Answer? Well, let's just say that Georgie's spag bols should be even more delicious in future.

The high point of the last few days was, without doubt, our late Sunday afternoon trip to Lake Marie for a leisurely swim. Went there on the old Beemer motorbike, gently swinging through fifteen miles of sunlit forest backroads, half expecting the place to be packed with tourists and campers. But when we arrived the place was almost deserted. Of course! The following day would be the Monday that the holiday crowd returns to work after the four weeks of August when France traditionally shuts down. Picked a quiet spot facing the sun on the empty beach (miles from the wasps' nest!), had a marvellous swim then sat back and enjoyed a few coffees.

This time I actually remembered to take my camera (normally I forget). Took a few snaps of Georgie. Like most people, she hates having her photo taken, so she kept turning away. But I kept right on snapping. By the laws of averages, a couple should turn out okay, even for a lousy photographer comme moi. Very pleased with the results. Lovely setting, lovely lighting and, of course, a delightful model. Moments to treasure through the coming winter months. (Er..., apart from the one where we're both looking stupid but I've included it because it's one of those rare photos that has us both in the same shot.)

Ah well, there you go. September's here, summer's over, Georgie's gone 'til October. Just me and the dogs, back in the old routine, rattling around in our ivory tower.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OvB6rrnzDM8