Weather's still glorious out here. Mind you, we could do with some rain. I keep saying that. Bound to regret it. All too soon it'll be raining chats et chiens. Then the snow. Brr. In the meantime, might as well enjoy the sun while it lasts.
Been taking advantage of this meteorological clemency by giving the washing machine a bashing. Washed dozens (well, it seems like it) of sheets and duvet covers plus piles of my festering rags and hung them out to dry. Couple of hours in the sun and they're ready to be stashed away. Brilliant! Ironing? What's that?!
The bright sunshine really brings out the autumn colours. Greens are turning to yellows and browns and sometimes bright oranges and reds. The back track to the granite cross has been completely transformed. Managed to grab a couple of hours yesterday and today (in-between washing duties - not to mention blasted tax form filling-in and posting), so ambled up there with easel and canvas to do a bit of painting. If the weather holds up I'll get up there again tomorrow (well, later today to be exact) to change a few things and add the finishing touches. Amazing how many people stopped and chatted: a family walking their Westie, the mayor farmer, another farmer and the Poussanges gang of holiday kids (they're back in town, er, hamlet). All very complimentary. But it ain't that good. I'm just an amateur artist from the Winston Churchill school of relaxing paint sploshing. I'll keep trying though.
My, how tempus fugits. It's a week ago already that I waved au revoir to Georgie and Helen at Limoges airport after their long week-end visit. They'd popped over to celebrate their birthdays (two days apart) but unfortunately Donnie couldn't make it due to nasty work commitments. Crikey, they were lucky with the weather. Brilliant sunshine for four out of five days. We were even able to have breakfast outdoors. Unheard of for mid-October. Nights were chilly though. Especially for Helen up in the loft. Needed an ice-pick to get her out of bed on the first morning. So we decided to go on a shopping expedition to Aubusson in search of an electric blanket.
Raided a few shops and drew a blank. Maybe the French don't use 'leccy blankets. Then tried a couple of biggish supermarkets. No luck. Then tried a 'leccy shop on the edge of town. Re-emerged in semi-triumph clutching a hot water bottle. Having thus solved the problem of keeping Helen alive at night, we didn't really need to continue our search. But continue we did. We had one shot left: a tiny shop in the middle of Aubusson. Bingo! Spotted one in the window. A double sized one for sixty quid. Bit pricey but needs must. Went inside and asked if they had a single. Lady disappeared out the back and came back with exactly what we'd been searching for. Mission accomplished.
Later that evening, assisted by the French-English dictionary, Georgie read the 'use of blanket' instructions. Apparently it seemed to be an overblanket. Far as I was concerned, this made no difference. Just stick it under the bottom sheet and underblanket as normal. However, the girls seemed somewhat concerned that this might result in Helen being roasted alive due to body pressure compressing wiring - all too technical pour moi. In the end Helen decided to just sling it under the duvet but above the bottom sheet for half an hour before beddy-bos. Worked a treat, with the aid of the hot water bottle. Does anyone know the ins and out of 'leccy overblankets versus underblankets? Maybe it's not designed for beds after all. Maybe it's intended for old people to sling over their knees when watching telly. Must admit I'm a complete novice in such matters.
Anyway, I digress (as usual).
For Georgie's birthday we took things easy. Very relaxing day just pottering. Had planned on booking a table for dinner at the 'Lion d'Or' restaurant in Aubusson (highly recommended by Monsieur Petit the local insurance agent who is a gastronomic expert, despite being spotted doing a six hour shift barbecuing sausages in blisteringly hot conditions at Felletin's recent antiques market day - a nightmare experience that not only turned him into a shadow of his former self but also put him off sausages for life), but, that night, they were having a special six course nosh-up costing 35 euros which would probably last five or six hours and result in a doubling of Georgie's body weight. Also, garlic snails were on the menu. Personally, I love 'em but Georgie doesn't. So, instead, we decided to just stroll the streets of Aubusson and see what happened. Ended up grabbing the last table at the very pleasant gallette (pancake) restaurant up one of the back alleys. Had a marvellous meal and a splendid time (see photo on exiting said restaurant). Driving back through Aubusson and Felletin at about 11pm on a Saturday night, we were quite amazed at how few lights were on. Everyone goes to bed at about nine. Either that or they have very heavy curtains.
For Helen's birthday we had a day trip to Lac Vassiviere. Took a Thermos and the dogs. Lovely day; bright, warm sunshine. In the middle of the lake, there's an island with a chateau, a caff and a modern art gallery (well worth a visit). The girls visited the gallery while I walked the dogs outside. Apparently the exhibition featured works by some architect. Not exactly my tasse de the (pronounced 'tay' but I don't know where the accents are). Then we all sauntered around the woods checking out various modern art thingies. Jock insisted on wee-ing on most of 'em. An excellent judge. Perhaps the most interesting exhibit was an Andy Goldsworthy curved rock wall structure (circa mid-'80s?) at the water's edge. Well it would have been at the water's edge had the water level not dropped twenty feet, thereby leaving the wall thirty yards inland. Rain sorely needed. Would have taken some stupendous photos but..., left camera at home.
Next day, Limoges airport. As I said at the start, that was a week ago. Seems longer.
On this evening's dogwalk as I watched the sun go down, I almost missed what was going on in the clouds behind. Quite some show. Lasted about five minutes. All rather splendid.
Have recently been asked how Jock's progressing after his recent mauling by the two hunting dogs. Well, he's still a bit scabby underneath but seems to be back to his mischievous and cantankerous old self.
First frost this morning. Winter's on its way. Which means that last evening's dogwalk may well have been the last warm and sunny one of the year. Wasn't going to load up pics of it due to having posted loadsa doggy walks recently. But, I've changed my mind so I can look back at these snaps in the depths of winter and remind myself of sunnier and warmer times.
I make no apologies for making further mention of the Lightning Tree. It fascinates me, especially when bathed in the pink light of sunset. For just five or ten minutes it bursts into a variety of glorious colours before returning to comparatively dull normality after sundown. I've painted it once and I have a feeling I shall be painting it again. Trouble is, with only a ten minute window of opportunity (when it's sunny that is - and winter's coming!), it's going to be some challenge.
Once a week we get a bunch of mailers plonked in our mailboxes from local branches of national supermarkets featuring special seasonal offers. Found it hard to believe but today we received our first Christmassy one. Appeared to be full of rubbishy toys. Made me feel very sorry for all the poor young parents out there who see this junk that they can't really afford but feel compelled to buy.
Had a second reminder that Christmas is on its merry way out on this evening's dogwalk, down in the bottom field of the lightning tree circuit. Along one edge there are a few holly bushes. More like trees really. And some of them are covered in berries. Never seen anything like it. Quite spectacular. Especially when lit by the low evening sun.
Hmm, now I come to think of it, Christmas is only about ten weeks away. Where does the time go?
One of the joys of being a doddery old hermit recluse tucked away in the back of beyond is that one can, if one so chooses, completely lose touch with the outside world. This one (i.e. moi) tends to do exactly that with a degree of frequency that would make Howard Hughes seem positively gregarious by comparison. Especially on Sundays.
Sundays are my days of rest. This, of course, implies that all the other days are days of work. Hmm..., well, they probably would be had I not cultivated a natural tendency towards laziness ever since my first day at school. Laziness was the one subject I really excelled at - I have numerous school reports to prove it. Always amazed me how teachers, right through school and college, never appreciated just how hard I worked at being lazy. Sometimes, quite often actually, I'd finish a lesson feeling totally exhausted by the amount of effort I'd put into doing absolutely nothing. And did I ever get the credit I deserved? No. Never. Not even once.
Er, where was I? Ah yes, Sundays. Or, more specifically, last Sunday. Or, to be exact, yesterday.
So there I was, exhausted from a week of doing nothing, taking it easy by surfing the internet for dilapidated country cottages and magnificent old British bangers (bikes not sausages), dressed in the dog-chewed rag that used to be a dressing gown, quietly going about my business without the interruption of uninvited guests from the outside world, either in person or via TV or radio, when I had a brainwave. Instead of wearing myself out doing nothing, I'd relax by actually doing something. But what? Eventually decided to continue painting the boudoir. Started this mammoth project over a year ago. Did three walls then ran out of steam. Now was the time to pick up where I left off. Picked up a paintbrush, opened the paint tin, gave what was left of the paint a good old stir (paint and water content had, of course, separated), then went downstairs and made a cuppa to recover from these exertions, noticed the kitchen stove needed another log, noticed the indoor log stash was bereft of logs thus requiring replenishment by a trip outside to the logpile with wheelbarrow, which in turn required a change of clothing from ripped dressing gown raggery to something more appropriate but equally raggery, went back upstairs, got changed, chained Sprock to bannister post, opened front door, went outside, loaded barrow, returned with logs, forcibly removed Sprock from doorstep (grass was a bit wet and he hates getting his feet damp - strange for a hunting terrier), returned to barrow, Sprock returned to doorstep, once again forcibly removed him, returned to barrow, Sprock returned to doorstep, repeated this exercise a few times, eventually charged straight at the disobedient little git with the barrowful of logs, dog ran for cover, logs flew out of barrow when wheel hit step, I ended face down in the few logs that remained in the barrow, reversed, cleared fallen logs from doorstep, carried remaining logs from barrow to indoors, put one in the stove, returned barrow to shed, locked shed, returned to chateau, kicked Sprock off the doorstep, went back upstairs, put lid back on paint pot, returned to kitchen, sat down, had fag and cuppa, totally fattygayed. Decided to continue (er, I mean commence) painting tomorrow, which is today. I'll make a start soon. Maybe.
With the exertions of not painting behind moi, I then recovered from the ordeal by relaxing on the settee. Thought about switching on the radio or telly but decided not to as this would put me in touch with the outside world. Far better to simply sit there watching the dust sparkling in the sunlight streaming through the front windows with occasional glances to the many big cobwebs decorating the ceiling beams. Besides, couldn't be arsed to lean across and grope under last night's dishes on the coffee table in a knackering attempt to find the twiddler (or 'remote' as I believe it's referred to in more civilised environs). After all, this is surely what Sundays are all about.
After a while (could have been five minutes, could have been half an hour - I lose all track of time when my mind's wandering), I decided to get back in touch with the outside world by phoning my sister's tribe and then Georgie. This may be considered a simple exercise by those of a less reclusive nature than myself but to an old hermit comme moi who rarely says anything more than "bonjour" or "sit" or "come here y'wee bastards" or "no, you greedy mutts, you've just had a chew; do you know how much these damned things cost?", the prospect of engaging in conversation with anyone, especially loved ones across the channel who always expect a full rundown of how things are going out here and who are always disappointed my usual grunted retort of "okay, bit cloudy", is, to put it bluntly, somewhat daunting.
Anyway, phone calls done, I then returned to the sanctuary of the sunlit settee, found the twiddler, put on the telly in search of a good old black and white Sunday afternoon film, couldn't find one, homed in on the snooker final instead and immediately fell asleep. Woke up at about five, attacked the dirty dishes, grabbed the camera, slung mutts in dogwagon and headed up the lightning tree for a dogwalk. Am acutely aware of boring readers (should that be plural?) senseless with flowery descriptions of dogwalks, so I'll keep this one simple... parked in field, walked dogs around adjacent field, took photos of splendid evening sky, went home.
Perhaps worth mentioning that while I was up there, enjoying the solitude that can only be found in an area as remote as the famously uninhabited Creuse region of France, the local farmer (well, actually his dad) appeared in the distance driving his rusty old Renault van down the dusty old track. As he passed me he stopped and we had a quick chat. As usual, I stated the bleedin' obvious: "I'm dogwalking and taking photos, lovely evening," and, as usual, he responded with some expression I didn't understand. Whatever it was, I answered "yes", thereby taking a 50/50 chance that he wouldn't think me barking bonkers. However, his bemused facial expression suggested "no" was the answer he expected. Maybe he'd asked if I minded his intrusion while he quickly checked his cattle. Or maybe not.
Communication, or lack of it rather: that's the problem when two hermit recluses bump into each other. Especially on a Sunday's eve in the middle of nowhere. Ho hum. C'est la vie.
I've won the lottery! Unfortunately my prize was a mere four euros but at least it shows that Lady Luck is on my side. So..., when I win the biggie (and I surely will), what will I do with my millions? Well, I'll give half to various members of my tribe, then splash out on..., er..., what? To be honest, I don't really know. I already have everything I need..., except maybe a cheap little holiday home back in England. Then I could see more of my nearest and dearest.
Been looking for suitable properties on the internet. Nothing grand or flashy. As is my wont, I've kept things cheap by limiting my budget to 150k. Surprisingly, there are quite a few gaffs that would do me nicely. For example, I've just spotted this humdinger (damn, won't load up - Google: rightmove west harrowbarrow). Auction's quite soon. Better go and fill in that Loto entry.
Every so often I remember that I have boxes of LPs stashed away in the indoor shed, still unpacked from May '05 when we moved here. Must be about 500 or more at a guess (er, LPs, not boxes!). Haven't played 'em in years - not since around '95 when my old record player packed up and I switched to CDs. Still haven't got around to getting my sound system set up yet(!) so the only time I get to hear any CDs is when I'm driving the old Citroen dogwagon. Unfortunately there's a dodgy speaker in the passenger door so the sound's more often mono than stereo. Requires a long stretch to the right and a hefty bash when driving to get it working again - a risky manoeurvre that has resulted in a few interesting off-road jaunts.
Occasionally I suddenly remember a fave old singer or track that I don't have on CD and immediately hit YouTube for a quick ear'oling. But, in the unlikely event that the song's there, it just ain't the same as playing the real thing with a proper deck and speakers. This afternoon, while having my teatime cuppa, I attempted to track down a couple of my old fave artistes hidden away in the depths of YouTube. Found 'em but unfortunately each had only a few songs listed. Luckily they included some belters which I'm including here in order to continue my crusade to convert the world to the joys of country music at its finest (er, one track's more soul than country but no matter, both warblers deserve far greater recognition). If one of these four brilliant tracks doesn't knock you out, I dunno what will.
After wee Jocky's less than enjoyable visit to the vet yesterday (he hated being pinned upside-down on the operating table and having his wound scrubbed with iodine - didn't notice the two injections though), I thought he'd be less than enthusiastic about joining Sprocket et moi for a soiree walk up the lightning tree. And I was right. So, being the sympathetic and conscientious patrol leader that I am, I cunningly clipped the dog collar round his neck while he was hiding under the upstairs desk, attached the lead and dragged the miserable little git down the stairs and to the car, much to his obvious disapproval, and off we went.
Did a leisurely lap of the top field at the lightning tree which Jock seemed to enjoy then returned home and dished out their grub. Half expected Jock to ignore it but he ate about half before having a well-earned kip while Sprock and I sat outside in the last of the evening sun. Been ridiculously sunny (and hot!) for about a fortnight now. Don't know how much longer this will last but we'll enjoy it while we can (sunny again ce matin). Anyway, I digress. While I was out there swigging my aperitif, neighbour Alain turned up to feed his big, old, blind, hunting dog (lives in a kennel in the shadow of the church wall - the dog that is, not Alain) and we had one of our quick chats (they're always quick because Alain doesn't speak English and I hardly speak a word of French). Told him about Jock's mauling. He asked if I recognised the hunting dogs' owner (Alain knows all the hunters around here; come to think of it, he knows everyone). Said I didn't but his hunting partner was wearing glasses and seemed vaguely familiar. "Aha!" said Alain (or words to that effect), "they're the two local gendarmes (policemen)!"
Soon as Alain said that, I remembered the two cops visited me a couple of years ago after a house up the road had been burgled (a rare event round these parts). Asked if I'd seen anything suspicious or if a stranger had knocked on my door selling spuds a few days before the break-in. Told 'em the spud man had indeed visited. They concluded that he must have been some foreign (they meant not local) itinerant, probably a gypsy, who wasn't a spud seller at all but who used that as an excuse to see if any houses were unoccupied holiday homes that could later be raided. Anyway, I digress again.
The fact that they're cops would explain their concern about Jock's condition when they visited minutes after the mauling. In France it's illegal to not have a dangerous dog on a lead in public. Technically (as the vet explained), I could go to the cops and report the attack. But..., well, get the picture? And, being a foreigner in redneck country, there would probably be 'repercussions'! I could, of course, visit the cop in question and I'm sure he'd be happy to re-imburse the vet's fee, but I think it'll be better to just keep things quiet. If and when he discovers I've been to the vet and paid the bill (these things get around) he'll know he owes me a favour. One never knows when that may come in handy!
Anyway, Jock progress report: He's been snoozing, which is good. Haven't been able to have a close look at the wound but have managed a close-up photo. Looks a bit nasty. No way will he allow me to put iodine on it so am hoping it'll heal naturally. Looks like he's been licking it a bit which, I think, is good but I could be wrong. Far as I know this is what animals do in the wild; saliva is apparently medicinal. I'll keep an eye on progress. If there's any deterioration it's straight down the vet's.
