Artificial Insidiousness

I am perhaps a semi-luddite. I accept that certain technological breakthroughs have been invaluable - the wheel for example 😉 . . . and of course a thousand other things, but after listening to a John Oliver episode this morning my creeping dread of AI turned into abject disgust. Not because of it per se, more the people exploiting its uses for financial gain - well, what a surprise. It could of course - if everyone behaved like they cared about forging a more fair and caring world community - be impossible-to imagin-ly useful. For ecology, food production, health care, and possibly solving many man-made messes before madame nature boots us all off this overheating sphere. 

                                            An AI engagement-hacking shrimp Jesus/slop/spam 

However Mr Oliver's excellent observations were on the subject of A1 slop. Something even I have been aware of, slithering into my Instagram 'feed' - God how I hate that word within an internet context. I've cut down to about ten minutes a day - there are some wonderful and beautiful things on there: collections of rare film snippets, great gardening/cooking suggestions,  hilarious rubbish, glimpses into the lives of people living in very different places, etc, BUT there is also a growing amount of total crap, still obvious to the human eye as AI content - if you take more than the average three seconds to examine it closer. The really shocking revelation is that there are people out there selling online courses on how to produce this shit in the hope of a post becoming viral, and therefore gaining cash. How have we got to a point so removed from human ingenuity? Youtube for example used to be experimental, mad and glitchy - me and son still sing bits from the heartwarmingly creative and eccentric Fishcake video, sadly taken down some time ago. 

     Just one of AI's super recipe ideas

This morning, Mark showed me a post on Facebook of a plate of greasy, cheese-infested . . . stuff. 

"I keep getting content like this." 

I suggested clicking on the profile photo which revealed an unhealthily perfect-looking asian woman holding book of recipes. 

"It's not real - she's not real."

"Uh?

"Look at her face - and the book's font is all to cock. And - would a skinny Asian woman really be suggesting cooking stuff with four pounds of cheddar in it?"

"Oh . . . yes. I see."

There's been increasingly large amounts of oh . . . yes. Even the fabulous picture of a mass of storks nests I saw on time-evaporation-gram this morning suddenly seemed doomed with possibly fakery, so much that I suddenly felt supremely stupid and taken in. Slop will not get me. I'll 'tune in' to watch a few favorite content producers - see The Functional Melancholic, a few posts back, or historical, philosophical docs, etc, or allow my ten minutes for laughs on I Gram, but that's it. I'll get left behind. So what? I'll be ready with books and a radio when it all implodes (see my own theories in Londonia et al).

Talking of which. After listening to Mr Oliver I went into the garage, brushed the dust off our previous house-owner's RADIO, plugged it in and revisited the joy of instant, live discussion. No blue tooth faffing, no ads about pool robots - even though we don't have a pool - weight loss programs, and online spiritual courses. 

Also, featured below, a book - I know . . . I sound irritatingly oldie but sinking yourself into a phone screen just isn't the same. English Pastoral - I am currently glued to is beautiful, heart rending, inspirational and thoughtful, from an author who has lived through the upending of real agricultural practices and is piecing back the good stuff from the past to make his family farm survive, with our natural world/humanity's survival foremost in mind.  

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Living on the route of Vélo Vintage

So, when we bought the new abode back in April, no one mentioned that about 2,000 cyclists dressed in 20s/30s/40s garb would cycle past our house for the weekend of 'Vintage Vélo', one of Saumur's festival which has been running for fourteen years. Next year we'll do a lemonade stand, but Mark has been out  with his accordion entertaining (yes, they did like it!) and encouraging the cyclists to complete the 34 km or so; maybe not an enormous length but in the heat of 38 or so, yes, it's a lot.

                    Mark and our super neighbour, Nico, entertaining the two wheeled passers-by

We went down into town last night - stalls of vintage clothes everywhere, booze flowing and some really great music. Think we might go again later this evening, if we can dig out some appropriate clothing.

 

The sea, the sea

One of my favourite Iris Murdoch tomes, and one of my favourite places - anywhere at the sea really, our nearest being the lower part of the Brittany coast.

Needing to escape the never ending scraping-off-wallpaper-and-putting-paint-back-on current section of my life, I booked a train ticket, made use of my B and B voucher and went for a couple of nights to a cheapy B and B in Le Pouligen - very slightly less ostentatious than its neighbour, La Baule Escoblac, - seaside town. The house was conveniently situated between the wonderful wild coast - where there are no eateries, etc, and the town. I walked a ridiculous amount on both days and my feet told me all about it on the last evening. Swimming was the main objective however, and I indulged as much as possible - the coves and beaches still relatively quiet, and very few people taking the water as it was deemed to be cold . . . not to a hardy Hardy, used to swimming in rivers, ponds and the off the coast of the UK.

Salt still prickly on the skin from the last dip, I reluctantly boarded the train back home knowing I will have to return soon for the next fix.

  La Baule-Escoublac - great architecture spotting-town

Abandoned renovation project on the spectacular wild coast near Le Pouligen - according to a local, it was started years ago, without planning permission . . .

One of the wonderful 'splayed' pines of that coast

Absurdism: the Joy in "Nothing Matters"

A reason to pay your internet subscription . . . 

The Functional Melancholic - beautiful, dryly hilarious, almost slow motion thoughts on human existence.

A particularly poignant video as we, and all other lifeforms on this maligned space-ball, are dragged towards yet another pointless, weapon-bristling episode by egotistical loons who should not be in charge of anything more than how many steps to take in any direction within their own, personal padded cell.

A horse's eye

After utterly depressing myself with the world news this morning - small-handed, pathetic, orange wanna-be king watching his birthday-commanded tanks roll past him while most of the country (or the rational beings anyway) were out in the streets showing their ardent disgust; everything going on in the giant dust cloud of the Middle East; the thousands of dollars wasted; the thousands of people killed, the thousands of weapons used and re-ordered; our animal, bird, fish and plant brethren maimed, polluted and wiped away - I went out for the morning dog walk. 

We paced into the vineyards; Bali smelt and tried eat unspeakable things, and I attempted to block out the visions of world 'leaders' and drying up lakes etc by musing on cloud structures, fattening walnuts and plums, bees droning amongst weeds that had been left alone, and generally admiring nature in all its glory - not that vineyards are necessarily the best example of unadulterated nature, but their reassuring green stripyness stretching off into the undulating hills was calming to the mind. 

Half an hour into the walk I was still haunted by various visions of human political and environmental stupidity - unusual as by now a sighting of a vine lizard, or appreciating lark song would have shifted the angst, but it was heavily ingrained this morning. 

We topped a hill and two horses stood, tails wafting at flies, their gazes turned upon us. Horses are always intrigued by Bali who could I suppose look like a very small, spidery horse. They followed us and then stopped, possibly anticipating food other than grass? or they were just curious. I never know if horses like being stroked, but I generally like to 'have a go' as I like the contact with such majestic beasts. I caressed the larger one's neck and as ever stared into a deep brown pool of an eye; an eye that seemed to hold all the knowledge and humility that we as a species don't have, may have once had, and should hastily re-learn. 

New space, new projects

When looking around our new house, we had observed the small dusty room next to the bathroom and had thought - storage. But with a much needed new velux, and a better amount of light coming in it started to say - studio, or rather, small garret studio, which is what I like to create stuff in - a cocoon of a place full of collected, inspirational stones/postcards/books etc.

After unearthing completed paintings and works in progress I've amassed it all - or most of it as there's still stuff lurking in the garage - in the space and it's probably the best room I've had to work it - beats our bedroom at the last house . . .

Projects: I'm just finishing a commissioned painting, as ever laid on top of a recycling emporium picture, using recycled paints - I found a fantastic box full of acrylics at our local Emmaus; perfect timing as my last lot were fast reducing down to various non-inspiring browns and greens.

An idea for a novel is also stomping about in my head - the first threads of a prequel to Londonia, so I'll what it's like writing in there too. Think it'll work, especially with rain pattering on the window. Might have to install a mini wood burner to really get the feel, or perhaps just a kettle and tea apparatus.

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The home for retired furniture

That's us. Just as we accept people's old plants, furniture in need of a new logement is welcome here - depending on which space needs what as we move along with this latest house 'nesting'.

Featured below, a weird, hand built . . . cupboard, thing, bought at one of our local recycling emporiums for 15 euros. Judging by the layers of paint I think it must have had several homes before, and was waiting forlornly in the hanger of junk for someone to see its potential. Now, re-painted in white and green-grey it has a nice calm home in our vintage 60s/70s bathroom.

The car load of wood is a collapsed 1970s 'tiger-veneered' wardrobe that we got in the other emporium for 5 euros. Seeing the possibility of creating a gas bottle cupboard to join the other 1970s kitchen cabinets we hauled it home and Mark is currently inventing said cupboard. The rest of the wood will be used around the house for shelves, and whatever can be constructed from 70s super dense chipboard.

Memory-provoking objects

Not the plate, although that does evoke a vague memory of a brocante somewhere, or the fruit - not often a memory provoker, or perhaps if you'd had a romantic episode under an apricot tree or something it might be. The knife is the souvenir here.

Ezra and I were down on the French south coast in our favourite place of that time - Cerbère. Having to drive back home, we'd decided to take the long rather vertiginous route up above Banyuls sur Mer and picnic somewhere. Food bought in a Carrefour on the way up there, I realised we hadn't brought a knife with us, so bought a pack of four cheap, wood handled knives - the sort a hunter might use to carve up a saucisson while perched on a rock under a cork tree, dog panting in the shade, cicadas rasping . . . 

No hunting dog, possibly the old Italian greyhound - can't recall which dog stage we were at at that point in time - but we had sought out the shade of a cork tree and armed with our new knives had proceeded to carve up fruit and cheese rather than charcuterie. It was probably the most perfect picnic, nothing exotic, no wild salmon or champagne - basic fare but heightened in taste because of everything experienced in that moment: a glittering distant sea, before which lay the orange and white hues of Banyuls; warm herby hillside breezes, stripes of vines, and silence apart from swallows and grasshoppers.

Three of the knives disappeared during various moves or over enthusiastic washing up sessions, but one remains in our new houses's cutlery drawer. I'll make sure it stays there, being used to cut up the occasional apple or pear; a little woody reminder of a favourite time and place.

House archeology

Our new (old, 50s? 60s?/70s?) house is a maze of discoveries - some wonderful, some less so. From climbing about in the attic it seems as if the original building must have been a small barn or dwelling made of the local stone - Tuffeau', which was added onto at various times during aforementioned epochs. The electricians, on showing me a blunted huge drill, said it's extrêmement custo meaning blooming ek, it's solid, and not going anywhere - which is great news for us, less for them and their equipment.

During the signing for the place the notaire did mention something about a dispute between the owners before us and their previous owners do do with a pig and chicken outbuilding; no sign of it now but there is a large garage that dates back a long time, no doubt without planning. Talking of such a thing . . . these days to put so much as a new down pipe in you have to get permission, but this whole road including our house looks as if things just developed rather than being planned. 

There were apparently 32 windmills along this road, the area presumably covered with wheat fields not vines as is the case now. The vestiges of about five  mills are visible, and we have some very ancient garden walls which maybe housed one of the mills. When I've slowed down from painting walls and trying to arrange building works I'll go down to the archive office and enjoy poking about - love old maps!

    

             The reason why the windmills were up here - highest point around for some distance

An excellent DIY person and myself have been tackling the weird shower room/kitchen on the ground floor and its associated bedroom as I can see we'll probably need financially to start doing B and B again. Of course, in my mind I assumed this would take a day or two but during the house archaeology we have discovered prehistoric glue that refuses to come off under the vile plastic flooring, and hideous polystyrene ceiling tiles that I'd thought . . . yeah, they'll do with a good coat of paint, but they won't, and I remember my mother's daily occupation when we lived in a London flat years ago of re-gluing the various tiles that had gently spiralled down during the night. It's got to be wood which requires a frame, and so on . . .

It'll just take a a day or two . . .

Anyway, it'll all get done and one day the salon/hunting lodge will look great with everything back where it should be when I've finished the walls and the electricians have figured out how to rewire it . . .

temporary (sort of) chaos in the salon

Guilty

Of eating in . . . KFC.

It was something I said I would never do again - the previous time was in about 1982 when I lived in Brixton. I'd just got mugged (very gently - someone carefully righting my little brown portfolio suitcase that had fallen over while I'd nodded off momentarily; he'd also managed to lift my wallet out of it during said righting) on a tube train. Anyway, I went into KFC as nothing else was open and discovered my wallet had gone, so bought chips and a greasy chicken portion with the cash I had in a pocket. Maybe it was my state of numbness but the 'food' was vile - mega salty and greasy, and led to me stating to myself, never again.

So, fast forward to yesterday.  We'd dashed about buying essential DIY stuff before the giant shed of Bricodepot shut, and then I had a choir concert in a wine/beer bar (odd) just down the road, and I hadn't eaten anything since a bit of cake several hours ago. No time to go home, so what was open? 'Nope, I said - not going in there,' as Mark suggested the eating experiment of going into Mr Kentucky's dive. 'Come on, it'll be . . . interesting, and maybe not as bad as the Golden Arches' - another fairly recent and regretted experiment.

'Okay', I said, 'but no chicken - you've seen the films.'

A bit daft as that's what they sell, but there was a 'veggie' option. We did the screen thing and waited at a grey plastic table in front of a frenzied wallpaper featuring the grinning founder at various life stages.

The stuff arrived. Not very fizzy Pepsi, and my veggie burger which actually tasted of nothing at all, apart from the salt I added and a pathetic lettuce leaf drenched in . . . something. Mark's was worse - a nan bread burger which actually didn't taste, really - no taste at all. I mean, chewing a very old cardboard box might have been more interesting. I suppose the word nan had conjured up a few vague nods to Indian spices. Nope. Nothing. And the fries . . . tiny, no salt and dry, like something you might have found while hoovering the car out.

And the atmosphere . . . hospital waiting room, with added people looking like they were waiting for test results not enjoying eating out. Weird. 

Not happening again. Ever. 

Pond is where the heart is

Just about every place I've ever lived in - apart from a couple of flats . . . a pond has been added to whatever garden there was, or is - the new house has enough garden to put a small pond in, so we have. A way to go yet as at the moment it's just a blobby plastic shape but a few edging rocks, gravel, plants and welcome frogs/newts sign and it'll soon be adding to the biodiversity of our patch.

A giant honeysuckle bush had to be dug out - was in a very odd place; then I had a good hunt about for a second hand pond but the only ones were vast so NEW it had to be! hopefully it'll last many years/decades . . . Lovely friends came and helped dig/level with sand, and the water butts have been mended so we should be able to fill it soon, and, oh no, I'll have to buy plants . . . there's an amazing garden centre just nearby. I will be strong. Just a few essential things.

                                                     Rather overbearing honeysuckle bush

                                                  where bush was - thanks Phil and Alison

     

                                                        And pond in - thanks Hazel and Pierre

Landed . . .

So, after many, many weeks of packing, sorting, discarding, arguing about what should be discarded, huge stress, sadness, and much excitement . . . we arrived in our new abode. Each move time we say never again, and this time, yes, NEVER AGAIN.

It was a very odd feeling to leave our beautiful old maison de maitre and its incredible nature garden. Here is . . . not at all beautiful, (the little garden will be), but very quirky, and on a smaller scale, allowing some rest for older person's joints/ back etc.

Chaos of early unpacking

Settled in dog

Our first eve in the house - I managed to get the open fire going.

I write this sitting on a sort of landing with a floor level window through which one can observe cyclists, walkers and luckily very few cars; and beyond, the Loire, the ancient fertile river bed lands, and onto the dark, long humps of forest. 

There is masses to do: unpacking, decorating, and more serious and essential work such as re-wiring, re-doing the stucco, painting etc, but as our friend Justine said over a coffee this morning at the market. Don't stress, just look at the views and it'll all come together - or something like that. He's a good calming influence!

Walk catalogue

Before we left the South of France almost five years ago to come up to the Loire, I catalogued all our familiar dog walks. And here I am again - about to do the same as we move again. Only up the road fifteen minutes but the walks will suddenly all be different again. No doubt, we'll return from time to time and do some the favourite ones for nostalgia's sake, or not . . . maybe they will be just part of that particular chunk of time.

The walks are twice daily; usually not involving the car, unless the weather requires walking in a wood to escape heavier rain. A good source of exercise for us and dog, and time to think, compose stories/music, or just observe the local birds, seasonal changes, etc.

a few years back on the Vendemies walk.

These and the previous walks all have and had names. The Southern ones: The runny fields - where the dogs could really chase each other, run for long stretches, and be exhausted enough to flop to their respective sofas on returning to the house. Up top - a good half hour workout up a steep hillside just nearby. Up top - big: the long circuit with spectacular views and a vertiginous climb at the beginning, again from the door. Vendemies: a favourite walk which did involve a short drive up a small mountain and through a hamlet with the name - Vendemies. You might encounter Monsieur Oui, Oui, Oui, a delightful old guy who lived in the house on its own surrounded by vine fields. There's a whole post about him somewhere on this blog. Sand and Field: a local walk taking in a river walk, sand for Gala (now no longer with us) and across various fields. And several others, including more suburban ambles such as: The music houses walk.

The walks of around here are more pastoral, paths cutting through fields, views of distant lines of poplars, the further away woods and forest, and the cliffs on the other side of the Loire. 

Some favourite ones: The posh house walk - down the road circuit, taking in the posh house, chalky tracks, corn fields and virtually never any traffic. The dogs walk off lead on most of these walks (Or rather Bali does - we lost Gala a couple of years back). The posh house extension - longer walk involving more chalky paths passing through pasturelands. The Cow House walk: longish walk through woodland paths, past munching cows and horses, the ubiquitous tuffeau stone farmhouses, and eventually through the cow farm's land - not possible after a lot of rain as everything becomes pure mud. The Pumpkin field, more pasture land and a good place to nick a few discarded pumpkins/courgettes or whatever has been harvested that autumn. And, pictured below: the Moulin de Lécé - a walk featuring a hamlet which once had its own church, manor, and windmill; a great walk for imagining times before, the vestiges of life before cars, supermarket visits etc. on this walk we often encounter Jean Paul, my often mentioned hero of organic veg production, digging, weeding or preparing his produce for the next market. 

So, the next walks. These are to be discovered, although we have already tried a few out - long steep walks up and down from the Loire to our new house, walks through vine fields - pretty much as far as you wish to go, and walks into the town, past the chateau and with fascinating views across the river and distant woodlands. There will be a few car and foot walks but I think there will be enough just from the door to satisfy dog and ourselves.

Chickencarnation

Our latest short story production. Tale and narration by me, wonderfully inventive soundtrack by Mark Lockett. 

© Kate A Hardy 2025

Nathan, a worker at Smythe Poultry Products, discovers strange, thick hairs newly emerging from his chest . . .

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YCuuf1264nc

      

 

Should I keep or should I throw now, part 3

So, we've spent a few weeks of clearing through stuff in our house in preparation for moving. (Yes, we have too much . . .) Our next abode is 50s/60s - no one seems quite sure - and our current house, an 1830s maison de maitre. A lot of the objects and furniture gleaned from vide greniers (car boot sales) and charity emporiums made up the decor of this grander house, and now . . . the 60s/70s kitchen, and weird 'hunting lodge' styled salon of the new place suggest new trips to be made to afore-mentioned places. Great!

We've donated several car loads of items to Emmaus - probably a lot of the stuff came from there - and I've enjoyed spotting the various familiar things on display there. It struck me that it's rather like a brocante library; you buy a Victoriana tea pot, use it and when it's started gathering dust from non-use, take it back and find something else to take its place, thus leaving someone else to enjoy such delights as our naff but wonderful Napoleon and Josephine coffee set, now in the 'best china' section of Emmaus. 

I even remember which Vide Grenier it came from - a very bucolic- scened one situated in a grassy meadow on the heights above Limoux, our old town about ten years ago.

Other items are more difficult to part with, such as this hessian 'gardening bag' that Ezra made at the age of about seven for my birthday. It's never been used for gardening (wasn't sure how to) and has rather been lost at the back of a cupboard, but . . . yes, I see a new future for it -a seed packet storage bag, hanging on the new houses's garage wall. Things that should be kept.

78G

Our latest short story on the Londonia Youtube channel. 

A dark-humoured, Orwellian nod to the future of cellular network technology. Narration by me; music and sound design by Mark Lockett.

 © Kate A Hardy 2025

                        

A worm-karma day

We all have our little foibles . . . one of mine is to pick up earth worms when they are on a mission to cross(very slowly) tarmac roads. I hate to see their squished little bodies as they have attempted - not sure why - to reach a different patch of muddy verge. There must be a reason? Perhaps the rain gives them a feeling of wild freedom; an easier way to cross without risk of drying up on their unknown-to-us plans of reaching the other side. 

I just consulted uncle Google about worm behaviours and bodily functions. According various research studies, worms do feel pain, have short term memories - obviously not about road crossing - and have five hearts in their relatively simple blood circuits. Maybe this is just one type of worm; I didn't get any further because as usual I got sidetracked by the increasingly mad questions . . . "What do worms not have?" Answer: "Arms and legs" . . . "Do they eat food?" "Yes. And they like moisture. If they don't have these things, they go somewhere else." Somewhere else. I see.

it was a worm-karma day yesterday; very dank, not actually raining but it had been. Suicidal worms were out in force, ambling - without arms and legs - across all roads I walked down - admittedly quiet roads, but several had already met their demise from the odd passing car or tractor. The dog stood patiently, writing notes in her head about my increasingly odd behaviour, while I found the right, flat stick. The rescue can be done with fingers but the wriggling body, presumably assuming it's about to be devoured by a crow or similar predator is tricky to pick up. On the walk, I rescued around twenty-five worms of various sizes, adding, hopefully to future happiness in life or next lives. On entering the house, I made tea, gave the dog a 'chewy stick' reward and sat for a minute or two thinking about how those worms would be happily burrowing around in the bit of field they had been heading towards - I always place them on the grass/mud that appears to be the chosen destination. Or, perhaps they were silently furious about being whisked away from a crossing the road-dare, or the pure excitement of wading around on a wet tarmac surface. New research study, anyone?

 

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