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<feed xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom"><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-11-11:/</id><title>FROG BLOG</title><link rel="self" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/feed/atom/posts/"/><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/"/><subtitle>Bloke moves to France with confused partner and two barking-mad terriers</subtitle><generator version="1.0">MokoFeed</generator><updated>2009-11-11T11:15:17+01:00</updated><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-11-07:/2009/11/07/walter-kaaden-mz-genius-7323917/</id><title>Walter Kaaden - MZ genius</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/11/07/walter-kaaden-mz-genius-7323917/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-11-07T07:11:28+01:00</published><updated>2009-11-11T09:03:44+01:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;As well as being a fan of Vincent motorcycles (see previous posting), I'm also a big fan of MZs. This may come as a surprise because the two brands are at opposite ends of the biking spectrum. One's iconic and taken very seriously, the other's considered a joke. Grossly unfair. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;My enthusiasm for MZs began way back in the '70s when I first rented a bike shed to garage my trials bike. In the next shed along, a little old man kept his beloved 250cc MZ Supa 5 and on Saturdays, when we'd both be tinkering with our bikes, I'd often pop in to see how he was doing. Surrounded by old Castrol posters and faded black and white biking photos from a bygone age, he'd pour me a cuppa from his Thermos as he started nattering about 'the good old days' of the TT races. Kept me enthralled for hours. When I first asked him why he had a crappy old MZ, he laughed and said "because it's all I can afford!". Then he explained that he'd also bought it because he admired the way a tiny little East German factory took on, and beat, the 'big boys' at the TT. And it was all down to some chap called Walter Kaaden. Who? So he told me the MZ story. There's a lot you can learn from an old man in a shed. Sadly, the old boy died about a year later. But his stories, enthusiasm, and love of MZs never left me. As I said, I've been an MZ fan ever since. Had five so far. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;A book has recently been published ('Stealing Speed' by Mat Oxley) which goes into greater detail about the story I first heard from that little old man. Extracts have appeared in one of my classic bike magazines and, for some months now, I've been meaning to order the book. Finally did so this afternoon. Really looking forward to a riveting read. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Even for non-bikers, it's a fascinating tale and a ripping yarn...&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Where to begin? Well, perhaps the moon landing is as good a place as any. When Neil Armstrong first set foot on the moon, it was the ultimate step in NASA's space programme of the '60s. Head of NASA at that time was Werner von Braun, a German rocket scientist who fled to America after the second world war. I presume the Yanks gave him an offer he couldn't refuse: come to America and give us your rocket science 'know how' or be hanged (von Braun designed and developed the V1 and V2 'doodlebug' rocket bombs that caused so much devastation towards the end of the war). There's no doubt that von Braun's contribution propelled the USA ahead in the space race, but people forget that they also benefitted from Sir Frank Whittle's jet engine secrets conned out of the UK (along with millions of pounds, land, and heaven knows what else) as payment for the US assistance in WW2. Hah! The Yanks would never have got their moon-landing plans off the ground if left to themselves. I mean, look at their cars and bikes - rubbish.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I digress.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;During the war, Walter Kaaden was a junior member of von Braun's 'V' Series rocket team. Working alongside von Braun, Kaaden gained valuable knowledge of jet engine gas flow, resonance, air pressure harmonics and all sorts of other stuff that I don't understand. After the war, he chose not to join von Braun in America, settling instead for a simple life as a carpenter in Zschopau, East Germany. His means of transport was a humble little 100cc DKW motorcycle. In order to make it go faster, he experimented with different exhaust systems that he knocked up out of old bits of tin, utilising knowledge gained from his wartime experience. His test track was the road that went by the DKW factory where his speed and the banshee wailing of his screaming exhaust soon attracted the attention of the factory bosses. Impressed with his bike's performance, Kaaden was invited to join the DKW workforce. To cut a long story short, Kaaden soon became head of DKW's race team, DKW later became MZ (Mottorwerke Zschopau) and Kaaden was tasked by the communists to make MZ a world-beater on the racetracks. Some challenge! Especially with very limited resources.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Until Kaaden came along, the two-stroke engine was regarded in race circles as being uncompetitive. Four strokes were faster, more efficient, more powerful and more reliable. But Kaaden reckoned he could beat them. Working day and night in a scruffy little garage, he soon perfected his theories of exhaust gas expansion chambers and disc valve carburetion, thereby creating the same effect as supercharging. Miraculously, in a very short space of time, he almost doubled the power of his racing engine. Kaaden was now ready to challenge the might of Honda, MV and various other grand prix factories.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/mzteam_1/4084373" title="mzteam[1]"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/373/4084373_91c52fd8e1_m.jpg" alt="mzteam[1]"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br&gt;
(MZ team - Kaaden far right) &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;While developing the MZ racer, Kaaden had groomed a young East German mechanic named Ernst Degner as his assistant. He was also to be Kaaden's no.1 rider. When Degner entered the grand prix circus, he gradually started to win races which surprised everyone except Kaaden. He saw life in Europe. He saw his competitors' fancy cars and tasted their champagne lifestyle. He thought about defecting but, with a young wife and baby back home, he always had to return behind the Iron Curtain when racing was over.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/kaaden_1/4098288" title="kaaden[1]"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/288/4098288_9c6ba6d9bf_s.jpg" alt="kaaden[1]"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br&gt;
(Kaaden and Degner)&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;In 1961, Degner was just one race away from becoming 125cc world champion. The next race was the Swedish round and Kaaden was ready to celebrate. But it was not to be. Degner's bike had apparently broken down somewhere on the far side of the track. After the race, unbeknown to Kaaden, Degner defected. The rumour is that he was whisked away with his wife and kid by the Japanese in a pre-arranged plan, taking Kaaden's secrets and a few vital engine parts with him. Kaaden was devastated. The communist government immediately shut down Kaaden's operation and he became a forgotten man.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;However, his legacy continued. Armed with Kaaden's secrets, Suzuki won their first world title: the 50cc world championship. The rider? Ernst Degner. Then Yamaha and Kawasaki began utilising Kaaden's two-stroke theories. Pretty soon Japanese two-strokes dominated racing. Take a look at Barry Sheene's world championship winning Suzuki and you'll see it bears a remarkable similarity to Kaaden's MZs. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The guy was a genius. A true genius.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Walter Kaaden died of cancer, aged 76, in 1996. He lived to see the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of communism. Just before he died, he was tracked down and interviewed by Jan Leeks (author of 'MZ - Birth of the Modern Two-Stroke Racer). Kaaden said he was amazed anyone remembered him or his deeds and achievements at all. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Walter, you'll never be forgotten. You changed the world.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/kaaden_001_1/4084435" title="kaaden_001[1]"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/435/4084435_9b0a5443bc_s.jpg" alt="kaaden_001[1]"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;But that's not the end of the story. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Ernst Degner retired from racing after an accident on the Suzuka racetrack when he fell off his bike and it burst into flames. Degner's burnt body was pulled from the inferno and he somehow survived, but he suffered horrific burns. He moved back to Germany. In 1983, while in the Canary Islands (on holiday?), he apparently committed suicide by overdosing on the medicine to ease the pain of his burns OR by slitting his throat OR by shooting himself (seems to be some confusion from the reports I've read - hopefully 'Stealing Speed' will provide clarification, when it arrives!). Inevitably, there's speculation that it wasn't suicide but murder. KGB/Stasi hitman? A revenge killing? Possibly. We'll never know.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/bep8t2qbmk_kgrhqiokiyeq4i_nimybk8e5jser_12_1/4084436" title="!BeP8t2QBmk~$(KGrHqIOKiYEq4I,NImyBK8e5JSER!~~_12[1]"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/436/4084436_914d720e63_s.jpg" alt="!BeP8t2QBmk~$(KGrHqIOKiYEq4I,NImyBK8e5JSER!~~_12[1]" style="margin:5px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br&gt;
(The humble MZ - a proper biker's bike)  &lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/11/07/walter-kaaden-mz-genius-7323917/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-11-05:/2009/11/06/1953-vincent-rapide-c-7316079/</id><title>1953 Vincent Rapide 'C'</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/11/06/1953-vincent-rapide-c-7316079/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-11-06T00:59:35+01:00</published><updated>2009-11-06T10:29:23+01:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;I first read 'The Wind in the Willows' aged about nine. 'Toady' became an instant hero. Like him, I used to sniff exhaust fumes in much the same way as the Bisto Kids sniffed gravy. Been addicted to bikes and, to a lesser extent cars, ever since. Not these modern things though; just stuff from the 'fifties and 'sixties. Or, at a push, the 'seventies (you always have to push 'seventies cars - boom, boom!). &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;My dream machine is/was the Vincent Rapide - the 1000cc 'V' twin motorcycle that's arguably the best (whatever that means) bike of all time. Started looking for one semi-seriously a few years back. Prices were then around 12 grand - twice the price of a new Jap superbike. Astronomical. Then toyed with the idea again when we sold up and moved to France. By which time prices had risen to around 20 grand. Looked at one just outside Bromley, a minter. Tried to convince Georgie it'd be a wise investment, all the time knowing that all I really wanted to do was thrash it through country lanes on full chat. After all, that's what the damned things were built for; not museums or stashing away in heated garages. Almost bought it, but didn't. So near and yet so far.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I keep looking though. As I said, I'm addicted. Prices are now up to about 30 grand. Or more. Way out of reach. Spotted a good 'un on eBay last week. Bidding ended this afternoon. Last night it was up to about 24 grand. Hit 25 this morning. Thought it'd go for about 30. Made 32,100 at the last minute. Worth every penny. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Feast yer mince pies on this eBay beauty (with reluctant vendor who's selling to fund retirement home) while I cry inta me Rosie Lee...&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/bdivshg_mk_kgrhqmh_eeerfwwoeq0bk5zyljnoq_12_1/4080719" title="!Bdivshg!mk~$(KGrHqMH-EEErfwwoEq0BK5ZYLJNoQ~~_12[1]"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/719/4080719_593502199e_m.jpg" alt="!Bdivshg!mk~$(KGrHqMH-EEErfwwoEq0BK5ZYLJNoQ~~_12[1]" style="margin:5px;" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/11/06/1953-vincent-rapide-c-7316079/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-11-01:/2009/11/01/murrayfield-here-we-come-7285318/</id><title>Murrayfield, here we come</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/11/01/murrayfield-here-we-come-7285318/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-11-01T13:32:34+01:00</published><updated>2009-11-02T07:26:29+01:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/1246737_728d63b6_1/4063515" title="1246737_728d63b6[1]"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/515/4063515_e4866660d0_m.jpg" alt="1246737_728d63b6[1]"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Me and my big mouth. While watching the last France/Scotland Six Nations rugby match on telly round at neighbour Christian's way back in February, I casually mentioned that it'd be rather a wizard wheeze for us to visit Murrayfield for next year's Scotland/France game. Only really said it as a bit of a joke, never once thinking Christian would take the idea seriously. But a couple of weeks ago he mentioned that the game was scheduled for 7th February, thereby suggesting that he was quite keen on going. In order to put him off a bit, I told him tickets were gold dust but I'd look into it. Then, down at the market last week, Isabelle asked if she should find out about getting Christian a passport, just in case I managed to get match tickets. The whole thing had snowballed. Too late to say I wasn't really serious about going. Time for action.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Kicked off by looking for tickets on the internet. Visited a few dubious ticket agency sites where they were asking silly money with no real guarantee of delivery. No way, Jose (where are the damned accents?!). Then accidentally stumbled into the official Scottish Rugby site where I was amazed to find one could book face value ticket vouchers on a first come, first served, basis (I'm a mere novice in this ticket game - I thought tickets were only available to rugby club members). Immediately booked two 70 quid tickets.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Then went to the RyanAir site to book a couple of seats on the Limoges-Edinburgh flight. Disaster! Fully booked a week either side of match day! So checked various alternatives. Snapped up a RyanAir Limoges-Stansted flight, followed by an EasyJet Stansted-Edinburgh flight a few hours later which would get us into Edinburgh at around 6pm Friday (match on Sunday). For the return journey, I booked a Monday afternoon Edinburgh-Stansted flight and a Wednesday morning Stansted-Limoges flight, thus giving us a day in London, staying at Georgie and Don's in Putney.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;So, with match and flight tickets booked, I needed to find somewhere for us to stay. Checked out various Edinburgh hotels and b&amp;bs. Seemed all the cheapos were already full (not that there were any cheapos - they all whack their prices up during match week), so I was now faced with the likelihood of booking a room at some posh hotel at a cost of anything up to 250 quid each a night. That could be 750 quid each! No way, Jose; Jock, rather. After much feverish internet surfing, I eventually tracked down a cheapish guest house on the edge of town and booked their last room: a twin sharing. My relief at finding somewhere was only matched by the terrible thought of sharing with Christian. We'd be on top of each other for days on end - enough to drive both of us crazy. Nothing for it but to continue searching for two single rooms. Must be some somewhere at a non-extortionate rate. Eventually turned up trumps at a little hotel in the middle of town: two rooms at 50 quid each a night, including breakfast. Bargain. Immediately booked 'em and cancelled t'other one. Job done. It had only taken a couple of days! Only?!&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Told Christian the good news last week. Looked a bit stunned, though excited as well. After all, he's never flown, never been abroad (apart from once when he had to briefly drive his lorry into Germany), never been to an international rugby match, can't speak English, worried about 'English' food, extremely worried about catching swine 'flu and, above all, he's incredibly concerned about not being able to get any of that foul drink Ricard.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Should be an interesting trip.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;(Just found this 1990 clip. Great match. Great win. I was there!)&lt;/p&gt;
	




&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/11/01/murrayfield-here-we-come-7285318/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-10-28:/2009/10/28/the-red-tree-7258039/</id><title>The Red Tree</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/10/28/the-red-tree-7258039/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-10-28T03:34:27+01:00</published><updated>2009-10-28T03:37:03+01:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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?!&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1040012/4049664" title="P1040012"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/664/4049664_2b4cfa91c4_m.jpg" alt="P1040012"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1040039/4049667" title="P1040039"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/667/4049667_ffca58eb14_m.jpg" alt="P1040039"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1040037/4049668" title="P1040037"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/668/4049668_aa02103448_s.jpg" alt="P1040037"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1040041/4049669" title="P1040041"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/669/4049669_3e07fde76b_s.jpg" alt="P1040041"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/10/28/the-red-tree-7258039/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-10-27:/2009/10/27/birthday-girls-7252466/</id><title>Birthday girls</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/10/27/birthday-girls-7252466/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-10-27T11:43:29+01:00</published><updated>2009-10-28T01:53:18+01:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;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. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Anyway, I digress (as usual).&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030779/4047099" title="P1030779"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/099/4047099_bffad63222_m.jpg" alt="P1030779"&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Next day, Limoges airport. As I said at the start, that was a week ago. Seems longer.
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/10/27/birthday-girls-7252466/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-10-21:/2009/10/22/pink-to-blue-7219849/</id><title>Pink to blue</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/10/22/pink-to-blue-7219849/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-10-22T00:31:51+02:00</published><updated>2009-10-22T11:32:05+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;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. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030953/4028517" title="P1030953"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/517/4028517_30adf3a06d_m.jpg" alt="P1030953"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030937/4028518" title="P1030937"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/518/4028518_c4fb0bf660_s.jpg" alt="P1030937"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030948/4028519" title="P1030948"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/519/4028519_a8e251c4cf_s.jpg" alt="P1030948"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030956/4028520" title="P1030956"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/520/4028520_72ee294a28_s.jpg" alt="P1030956"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030958/4028521" title="P1030958"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/521/4028521_af57aa8fbc_s.jpg" alt="P1030958"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	




&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/10/22/pink-to-blue-7219849/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-10-16:/2009/10/16/scabby-7181417/</id><title>Scabby</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/10/16/scabby-7181417/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-10-16T14:30:42+02:00</published><updated>2009-10-16T14:30:42+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030751/4008921" title="P1030751"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/921/4008921_8c5a8215ce_m.jpg" alt="P1030751"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030754/4008923" title="P1030754"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/923/4008923_09aefc5ede_s.jpg" alt="P1030754"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030755/4008924" title="P1030755"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/924/4008924_4bbee23259_s.jpg" alt="P1030755"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/10/16/scabby-7181417/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-10-15:/2009/10/15/last-of-the-summer-whine-7173085/</id><title>Last of the summer whine</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/10/15/last-of-the-summer-whine-7173085/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-10-15T09:26:11+02:00</published><updated>2009-10-15T09:26:11+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030747/4004654" title="P1030747"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/654/4004654_c52b35c0ed_m.jpg" alt="P1030747"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030711/4004655" title="P1030711"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/655/4004655_4f1947fac0_s.jpg" alt="P1030711"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030715/4004656" title="P1030715"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/656/4004656_e7ca0851ad_s.jpg" alt="P1030715"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030730/4004657" title="P1030730"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/657/4004657_58927e5997_s.jpg" alt="P1030730"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030740/4004658" title="P1030740"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/658/4004658_4bc3a80bd3_s.jpg" alt="P1030740"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030738/4004659" title="P1030738"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/659/4004659_3181ea9be5_s.jpg" alt="P1030738"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030732/4004660" title="P1030732"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/660/4004660_958bd5b62e_s.jpg" alt="P1030732"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030772/4004661" title="P1030772"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/661/4004661_82b168f27c_s.jpg" alt="P1030772"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030771/4004662" title="P1030771"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/662/4004662_72d56f0ad7_s.jpg" alt="P1030771"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/10/15/last-of-the-summer-whine-7173085/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-10-15:/2009/10/15/the-lightning-tree-again-7171932/</id><title>The Lightning Tree (again)</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/10/15/the-lightning-tree-again-7171932/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-10-15T01:58:07+02:00</published><updated>2009-10-15T01:59:28+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030764/4004067" title="P1030764"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/067/4004067_cc478a05a6_m.jpg" alt="P1030764"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/10/15/the-lightning-tree-again-7171932/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-10-15:/2009/10/15/soon-be-christmas-7171896/</id><title>Soon be Christmas</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/10/15/soon-be-christmas-7171896/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-10-15T01:35:21+02:00</published><updated>2009-10-15T01:35:21+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Hmm, now I come to think of it, Christmas is only about ten weeks away. Where does the time go?&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030725/4004023" title="P1030725"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/023/4004023_d0fa08ef49_m.jpg" alt="P1030725"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030727/4004024" title="P1030727"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/024/4004024_15e9bc1e1b_s.jpg" alt="P1030727"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030745/4004025" title="P1030745"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/025/4004025_55d4fbab01_s.jpg" alt="P1030745"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;    &lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/10/15/soon-be-christmas-7171896/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-10-12:/2009/10/12/another-lazy-sunday-7152218/</id><title>Another lazy Sunday</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/10/12/another-lazy-sunday-7152218/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-10-12T12:40:38+02:00</published><updated>2009-10-12T15:26:44+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Er, where was I? Ah yes, Sundays. Or, more specifically, last Sunday. Or, to be exact, yesterday. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030597/3994555" title="P1030597"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/555/3994555_bdccbd730b_m.jpg" alt="P1030597"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030593/3994556" title="P1030593"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/556/3994556_88b212e8a9_s.jpg" alt="P1030593"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030600/3994557" title="P1030600"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/557/3994557_092e0ab215_s.jpg" alt="P1030600"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030607/3994558" title="P1030607"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/558/3994558_1ba7edad06_s.jpg" alt="P1030607"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030611/3994559" title="P1030611"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/559/3994559_5d0c37ea4f_s.jpg" alt="P1030611"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030615/3994560" title="P1030615"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/560/3994560_4354946e6a_s.jpg" alt="P1030615"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030577/3994561" title="P1030577"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/561/3994561_9551c8d915_s.jpg" alt="P1030577"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030579/3994562" title="P1030579"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/562/3994562_a4f64e7991_s.jpg" alt="P1030579"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030630/3994563" title="P1030630"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/563/3994563_b8a928d182_s.jpg" alt="P1030630"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	




&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/10/12/another-lazy-sunday-7152218/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-10-11:/2009/10/11/loto-7142933/</id><title>Loto</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/10/11/loto-7142933/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-10-11T10:03:22+02:00</published><updated>2009-10-12T14:56:14+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/10/11/loto-7142933/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-10-02:/2009/10/02/every-so-often-i-remember-that-i-have-boxes-of-7085355/</id><title>Del-boy and Rodders</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/10/02/every-so-often-i-remember-that-i-have-boxes-of-7085355/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-10-02T15:57:00+02:00</published><updated>2009-10-03T11:32:53+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;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. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_R6UH3k4ksg"&gt;http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_R6UH3k4ksg&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OMIol4BnAWw"&gt;http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OMIol4BnAWw&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	




	




&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/10/02/every-so-often-i-remember-that-i-have-boxes-of-7085355/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-10-01:/2009/10/01/walking-wounded-7076395/</id><title>Walking wounded</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/10/01/walking-wounded-7076395/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-10-01T10:47:27+02:00</published><updated>2009-10-01T11:57:26+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030560/3954160" title="P1030560"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/160/3954160_255343723d_m.jpg" alt="P1030560"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030561/3954161" title="P1030561"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/161/3954161_5f1eac3acf_m.jpg" alt="P1030561"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030554/3954162" title="P1030554"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/162/3954162_57b55a7a20_s.jpg" alt="P1030554"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030558/3954163" title="P1030558"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/163/3954163_e4c1cedcae_s.jpg" alt="P1030558"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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)!"&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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!&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030572/3954165" title="P1030572"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/165/3954165_b52ba2a5bc_m.jpg" alt="P1030572"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	




&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/10/01/walking-wounded-7076395/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-09-30:/2009/09/30/wounded-7068344/</id><title>Wounded</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/30/wounded-7068344/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-09-30T12:15:34+02:00</published><updated>2009-09-30T17:10:09+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;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. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030518/3951208" title="P1030518"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/208/3951208_5494c3f1b0_s.jpg" alt="P1030518"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	




&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/30/wounded-7068344/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-09-29:/2009/09/29/slob-7062527/</id><title>Slob</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/29/slob-7062527/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-09-29T14:21:01+02:00</published><updated>2009-09-30T08:18:30+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;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! &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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). &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030513/3948229" title="P1030513"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/229/3948229_be976e9191_s.jpg" alt="P1030513"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030516/3948230" title="P1030516"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/230/3948230_ab0401b6db_s.jpg" alt="P1030516"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030515/3948231" title="P1030515"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/231/3948231_b9ca66d836_s.jpg" alt="P1030515"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030512/3948232" title="P1030512"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/232/3948232_5c5c63c5c1_s.jpg" alt="P1030512"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	




&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/29/slob-7062527/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-09-26:/2009/09/26/pretty-awful-7046003/</id><title>Pretty awful</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/26/pretty-awful-7046003/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-09-26T22:25:47+02:00</published><updated>2009-09-28T00:31:55+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;Pretty: the pink flowery bush thing that appears to be doing rather well despite my infrequent activity with the watering can.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030504/3939367" title="P1030504"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/367/3939367_df481037ff_m.jpg" alt="P1030504"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/green_dog/3939368" title="green dog"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/368/3939368_93e95c4cf2_s.jpg" alt="green dog"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/poor_jock/3940189" title="Poor Jock"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/189/3940189_9c63820b42_s.jpg" alt="Poor Jock"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	




&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/26/pretty-awful-7046003/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-09-26:/2009/09/26/tough-cookie-7044510/</id><title>Tough cookie</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/26/tough-cookie-7044510/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-09-26T16:49:16+02:00</published><updated>2009-09-27T08:29:05+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;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. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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).&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030498/3938349" title="P1030498"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/349/3938349_90162971db_m.jpg" alt="P1030498"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030465/3938350" title="P1030465"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/350/3938350_f529946554_s.jpg" alt="P1030465"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030466/3938351" title="P1030466"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/351/3938351_bbd2c1a0ef_s.jpg" alt="P1030466"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030472/3938352" title="P1030472"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/352/3938352_abb2e74dc1_s.jpg" alt="P1030472"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030473/3938353" title="P1030473"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/353/3938353_2f2dd64048_s.jpg" alt="P1030473"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030483/3938354" title="P1030483"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/354/3938354_d2a9eee575_s.jpg" alt="P1030483"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030476/3938355" title="P1030476"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/355/3938355_3616eaf2df_s.jpg" alt="P1030476"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/26/tough-cookie-7044510/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-09-22:/2009/09/22/red-7016677/</id><title>Autumn</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/22/red-7016677/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-09-22T14:21:58+02:00</published><updated>2009-09-22T22:19:26+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030201/3924589" title="P1030201"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/589/3924589_2913761f14_m.jpg" alt="P1030201"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Last of the swallows has just flown south, kitchen stove's lit, evenings are drawing in, must be autumn.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030463/3924613" title="P1030463"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/613/3924613_7955fc87df_s.jpg" alt="P1030463"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030449/3924614" title="P1030449"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/614/3924614_a2c9619f51_s.jpg" alt="P1030449"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030431/3924615" title="P1030431"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/615/3924615_672d7bd79c_s.jpg" alt="P1030431"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030426/3924616" title="P1030426"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/616/3924616_40228c7a72_s.jpg" alt="P1030426"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030433/3924617" title="P1030433"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/617/3924617_715de1c909_s.jpg" alt="P1030433"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030451/3924618" title="P1030451"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/618/3924618_6910e4d07f_s.jpg" alt="P1030451"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030460/3924619" title="P1030460"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/619/3924619_684f3ff0de_s.jpg" alt="P1030460"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030458/3924620" title="P1030458"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data6.blog.de/media/620/3924620_ecaf9b0215_s.jpg" alt="P1030458"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	




&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/22/red-7016677/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-09-14:/2009/09/14/the-high-hill-6961240/</id><title>Mind like a sieve (er, forgot..., it's 'memory' innit)</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/14/the-high-hill-6961240/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-09-14T14:32:31+02:00</published><updated>2009-09-25T14:07:43+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;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. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;P.S. Forgot..., it's 'memory like a sieve'.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030363/3894971" title="P1030363"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/971/3894971_4c1b3783d8_s.jpg" alt="P1030363"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030372/3894972" title="P1030372"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/972/3894972_ad5ad89974_s.jpg" alt="P1030372"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030373/3894973" title="P1030373"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/973/3894973_0767789eb0_s.jpg" alt="P1030373"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030366/3894974" title="P1030366"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/974/3894974_e63fa26530_s.jpg" alt="P1030366"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030385/3894975" title="P1030385"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/975/3894975_921c8c0f45_s.jpg" alt="P1030385"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030388/3894976" title="P1030388"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/976/3894976_f367051503_s.jpg" alt="P1030388"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030390/3894977" title="P1030390"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/977/3894977_de154d92fc_s.jpg" alt="P1030390"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030401/3894978" title="P1030401"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/978/3894978_61fc6156b2_s.jpg" alt="P1030401"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030414/3894979" title="P1030414"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/979/3894979_921bb547b2_s.jpg" alt="P1030414"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030416/3894980" title="P1030416"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/980/3894980_f55edce1dd_s.jpg" alt="P1030416"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	




&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/14/the-high-hill-6961240/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-09-10:/2009/09/10/ticks-6935802/</id><title>Ticks</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/10/ticks-6935802/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-09-10T11:08:00+02:00</published><updated>2009-09-10T11:17:04+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;This is a tick. Found it attached to Sprocket's neck this morning. Must have picked it up on one of yesterday's walks. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030361/3880921" title="P1030361"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/921/3880921_09657b0f70_s.jpg" alt="P1030361"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030362/3880922" title="P1030362"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/922/3880922_3161846f97_s.jpg" alt="P1030362"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I digress...    &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/10/ticks-6935802/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-09-09:/2009/09/09/the-pierrefitte-circuit-part-6927241/</id><title>The Pierrefitte circuit - part 2</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/09/the-pierrefitte-circuit-part-6927241/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-09-09T03:10:02+02:00</published><updated>2009-09-09T10:06:02+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;Another ten pictures. Another ten thousand words.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030279/3876632" title="P1030279"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/632/3876632_45c8003f20_s.jpg" alt="P1030279"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030283/3876633" title="P1030283"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/633/3876633_3aac6c4c22_s.jpg" alt="P1030283"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030284/3876634" title="P1030284"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/634/3876634_9418cd42d5_s.jpg" alt="P1030284"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030320/3876635" title="P1030320"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/635/3876635_b80e65f9cc_s.jpg" alt="P1030320"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030326/3876636" title="P1030326"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/636/3876636_d9d821c0f4_s.jpg" alt="P1030326"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030331/3876637" title="P1030331"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/637/3876637_a5dffcbbf4_s.jpg" alt="P1030331"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030336/3876638" title="P1030336"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/638/3876638_71b04cfad9_s.jpg" alt="P1030336"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030337/3876639" title="P1030337"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/639/3876639_80ffc561e3_s.jpg" alt="P1030337"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030341/3876640" title="P1030341"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/640/3876640_3031e488b7_s.jpg" alt="P1030341"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030346/3876641" title="P1030346"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/641/3876641_5d4bf78411_s.jpg" alt="P1030346"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	




&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/09/the-pierrefitte-circuit-part-6927241/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-09-09:/2009/09/09/the-pierrefitte-circuit-part-6927202/</id><title>The Pierrefitte circuit - part 1</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/09/the-pierrefitte-circuit-part-6927202/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-09-09T02:58:30+02:00</published><updated>2009-09-09T10:10:44+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;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)...&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030251/3876597" title="P1030251"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/597/3876597_c231980ada_s.jpg" alt="P1030251"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030252/3876598" title="P1030252"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/598/3876598_7993d81633_s.jpg" alt="P1030252"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030253/3876599" title="P1030253"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/599/3876599_9a0ad95441_s.jpg" alt="P1030253"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030256/3876600" title="P1030256"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/600/3876600_ecbe86ccf1_s.jpg" alt="P1030256"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030258/3876601" title="P1030258"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/601/3876601_69607c2c44_s.jpg" alt="P1030258"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030259/3876602" title="P1030259"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/602/3876602_2f135a25b4_s.jpg" alt="P1030259"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030260/3876603" title="P1030260"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/603/3876603_cc9f70a89b_s.jpg" alt="P1030260"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030271/3876604" title="P1030271"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/604/3876604_540efb0823_s.jpg" alt="P1030271"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030272/3876605" title="P1030272"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/605/3876605_19dae31549_s.jpg" alt="P1030272"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030277/3876606" title="P1030277"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/606/3876606_1335b01223_s.jpg" alt="P1030277"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	




&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/09/the-pierrefitte-circuit-part-6927202/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-09-09:/2009/09/09/typical-tuesday-6927006/</id><title>Typical Tuesday</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/09/typical-tuesday-6927006/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-09-09T01:38:14+02:00</published><updated>2009-09-13T06:50:31+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;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...&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030245/3876415" title="P1030245"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/415/3876415_0ca798a1b9_s.jpg" alt="P1030245"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030243/3876416" title="P1030243"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/416/3876416_6b66ee9cb9_s.jpg" alt="P1030243"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030246/3876417" title="P1030246"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/417/3876417_c7535c3fe2_s.jpg" alt="P1030246"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030250/3876428" title="P1030250"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/428/3876428_1ed93104c7_s.jpg" alt="P1030250"&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	




&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/09/typical-tuesday-6927006/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-09-07:/2009/09/07/the-lightning-tree-6911513/</id><title>The Lightning Tree</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/07/the-lightning-tree-6911513/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-09-07T13:10:20+02:00</published><updated>2009-09-07T13:43:01+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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). &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Now, what's next...?&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1020825/3869325" title="P1020825"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/325/3869325_a4bab2a194_s.jpg" alt="P1020825"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1020931/3869326" title="P1020931"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/326/3869326_328de7c4e6_s.jpg" alt="P1020931"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030237/3869327" title="P1030237"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/327/3869327_70216c7add_m.jpg" alt="P1030237"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/07/the-lightning-tree-6911513/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-09-06:/2009/09/06/fave-beatles-song-6901357/</id><title>Fave Beatles song</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/06/fave-beatles-song-6901357/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-09-06T04:13:17+02:00</published><updated>2009-09-06T11:02:07+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;P.S. Am adding this monstrosity &lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kGESxjqHf7E"&gt;http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kGESxjqHf7E&lt;/a&gt; to show how far the Beatles moved pop music forward in just five years. Well, somebody had to. &lt;/p&gt;
	




&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/06/fave-beatles-song-6901357/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-09-02:/2009/09/02/back-to-abnormal-6875048/</id><title>Back to abnormal</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/02/back-to-abnormal-6875048/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-09-02T12:08:24+02:00</published><updated>2009-09-03T07:11:34+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;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. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.)&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030171/3850023" title="P1030171"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/023/3850023_d556aca5d9_m.jpg" alt="P1030171"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030161/3850024" title="P1030161"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/024/3850024_91b06098ac_s.jpg" alt="P1030161"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030155/3850025" title="P1030155"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/025/3850025_1f15c660d1_s.jpg" alt="P1030155"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030181/3850027" title="P1030181"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/027/3850027_cf7e7be3bb_s.jpg" alt="P1030181"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030177/3850040" title="P1030177"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/040/3850040_a079308c77_s.jpg" alt="P1030177"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OvB6rrnzDM8"&gt;http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OvB6rrnzDM8&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/09/02/back-to-abnormal-6875048/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-08-29:/2009/08/29/sure-beats-a-garden-centre-6846620/</id><title>Sure beats a garden centre</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/08/29/sure-beats-a-garden-centre-6846620/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-08-29T10:24:01+02:00</published><updated>2009-08-31T20:54:09+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;Our shack..., no, I'll start again. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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). &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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?).&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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).&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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). &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030122/3835898" title="P1030122"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/898/3835898_3730caef79_s.jpg" alt="P1030122"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030123/3835899" title="P1030123"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/899/3835899_658d21e10e_s.jpg" alt="P1030123"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030111/3835900" title="P1030111"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/900/3835900_d05e550162_s.jpg" alt="P1030111"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030112/3835901" title="P1030112"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/901/3835901_9a07fa146f_s.jpg" alt="P1030112"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030116/3835902" title="P1030116"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/902/3835902_09bb7691e3_s.jpg" alt="P1030116"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030119/3835903" title="P1030119"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/903/3835903_e8456ea6fd_s.jpg" alt="P1030119"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030120/3835904" title="P1030120"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/904/3835904_0266ea6551_s.jpg" alt="P1030120"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030121/3835905" title="P1030121"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/905/3835905_ea7b36ecac_s.jpg" alt="P1030121"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030129/3835906" title="P1030129"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/906/3835906_36552a5812_s.jpg" alt="P1030129"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030134/3835907" title="P1030134"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/907/3835907_8c4e490623_s.jpg" alt="P1030134"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/08/29/sure-beats-a-garden-centre-6846620/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-08-27:/2009/08/27/i-like-to-give-a-girl-a-good-time-6831968/</id><title>I like to give a girl a good time</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/08/27/i-like-to-give-a-girl-a-good-time-6831968/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-08-27T09:11:28+02:00</published><updated>2009-08-30T05:59:45+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.       &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030081/3829985" title="P1030081"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/985/3829985_b9ab3cf787_m.jpg" alt="P1030081"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030067/3829986" title="P1030067"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/986/3829986_7db49dcefd_s.jpg" alt="P1030067"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030082/3829987" title="P1030082"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/987/3829987_f71c46dbb3_s.jpg" alt="P1030082"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030084/3829988" title="P1030084"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/988/3829988_30f79151e5_s.jpg" alt="P1030084"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030083/3829989" title="P1030083"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/989/3829989_b9213d06d1_s.jpg" alt="P1030083"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030088/3829990" title="P1030088"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/990/3829990_d9d05b63cd_s.jpg" alt="P1030088"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030098/3829991" title="P1030098"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/991/3829991_ccfa04f53b_s.jpg" alt="P1030098"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030092/3829992" title="P1030092"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/992/3829992_398c2fb675_m.jpg" alt="P1030092"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sZa26_esLBE"&gt;http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sZa26_esLBE&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/08/27/i-like-to-give-a-girl-a-good-time-6831968/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:cestlavie.blog.co.uk,2009-08-25:/2009/08/25/a-sting-in-the-tale-6819509/</id><title>A sting in the tale</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/08/25/a-sting-in-the-tale-6819509/"/><author><name>frankofyle</name></author><published>2009-08-25T16:34:37+02:00</published><updated>2009-08-30T06:00:52+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030012/3824202" title="P1030012"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/202/3824202_118f9f28bb_m.jpg" alt="P1030012"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030016/3824203" title="P1030016"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/203/3824203_2afc3b34ef_s.jpg" alt="P1030016"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030010/3824204" title="P1030010"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/204/3824204_f541790879_s.jpg" alt="P1030010"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030020/3824205" title="P1030020"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/205/3824205_9298565cb2_s.jpg" alt="P1030020"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blog.co.uk/media/photo/p1030065/3824206" title="P1030065"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data5.blog.de/media/206/3824206_421c4b11dd_s.jpg" alt="P1030065"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;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.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2rpBAZEVHmI"&gt;http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2rpBAZEVHmI&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://cestlavie.blog.co.uk/2009/08/25/a-sting-in-the-tale-6819509/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry></feed>
