It's usually been a corner shop or a hill or a maize field or a busy intersection of road but this time it's a chateau that surveys the landscape of the Loire Valley. Every time I pass by its towering form I think about what it must have witnessed over the hundreds of years, currently mostly various wine/horse/night film festivals, less of the marauding, arrows and boiling oil of the distant past. And the future . . .? we'll be around a while to see - no intention of moving, again!
We haven't had time recently for a him and me road trip - see many previous older posts - but yesterday, work behind him, and me appreciative of a break from DIY, we set off in an easterly direction, following the meandering Loire.
Rules of road trip are stated somewhere a few posts back but basically, you get a bit lost, stop for snacks, go off on tangents and support the other person's wish to look at old abandoned train buildings or swim in a keep out stretch of water or wander along a tree-shadow lane going nowhere. Luckily we share a love of the insolite - slightly odd, a bit eerie sometimes, a tad melancholic, unsung by any guide books, etc. this trip had a bit of all of it, including an ancient coal mine and associated slag heaps.
We walked along afore-mentioned tree-shadowy lanes, crossed stepping-stoned river tributaries, admired flower filled water meadows and then returned to the car to make the return journey - a good, road trip style one of heading vaguely westwards though little villages and sunflower fields until the 'cats ears' of Saumur Chateau and the nearby water towers were visible on the horizon - now our compass points of home.
Today, Ezra is off on a bike trip with Dad, an equally relationship-confirming trip out. Later we will help him pack, and will feel that weird mixture of melancholic sadness but joy that he is making his next move to somewhere he wants to be. He's only up the road in effect, in the next city, not off on a world tour/moving to Australia. And we'll see him often, those times to be as precious as yesterday's road trip.
Good luck, our lad.
During a quest for old crockery to use at our Londonia book launch back in 2020, I discovered one of my top ten favourite charity shop finds - a Mona Lisa plate handprinted by someone who had obviously taken much time to emulate a favourite image, but, some elements were a little . . . odd, which of course made it so appealing. Said artist had also created a plate featuring the equally famous 'Arnolfini portrait' by Jan Van Eyck. Suppressing a whoop of delighted laughter I scooped them up, paid for them and the rest of the china and left to continue setting up the book launch.
More grout later, plus beads, ecclesiastical blue paint, bits of old postcards, gold paint ring/necklace etc and I think Leonardo would have been mildly impressed, or perhaps utterly horrified, or collapsed with laughter.
My getting in the river being curtailed due to low water level meant I was keening to swim in a big expanse - preferably the sea. We are two hours or so away from the Atlantic coast which is doable in a day or better still overnight to experience multiple swim episodes.
Having a 'superhost' B and B voucher at my disposal I searched around my favourite bit of the coast - Le Pouligen. Short notice and the only logements available were either 'sleeps twenty with wave machine- pool and gym, etc, or stuff that looked like a dentist's waiting room but with less allure.
Pornichet seemed to have a bit more choice so I opted for a friendly looking room in someone's house, used my voucher and booked it, to then be told that she'd forgotten to update her calendar so the room was taken. I'd by then reserved my train journeys so hunted around again and found . . . a boat. Slightly disconcerted about lack of loo on board - only because night trips up a pontoon gangplank might be a tad worrying when half asleep - but I booked it and thought what the hell, I'll pee in a bottle.
I arrived in Pornichet and wandered as I do without checking where the port was. Went the wrong way for a couple of miles, followed someone's instructions to then turn up at an expanse of tidal mud with boats lying drunkenly to one side. The sun had disappeared and the whole scene looked rather dystopian. Just as I resigned myself to thinking what an interesting experience it would be to sleep on a vessel as it gradually righted itself with the tidal swell my phone rang. The B and B host was wondering if I was lost - she'd kindly offered to allow me to board the boat some hours before the stated time. I described the muddy scene and she informed me that I was at the wrong port.
I hurried to where I could now see a host of masts and collection of 70s buildings and met her where I should have if I'd read her message . . . duh. This was more like it: all boats upright, gently swaying, orderly lines, and there it was, the smallest vessel in the port; a perfect little sailing yacht amongst a gluttony of huge plastic white ocean-going versions of camper vans. The host was obviously in a hurry, probably due my mal-orienteering She showed me what to do and what not to do, gave me the code for the loo/showers/pontoon gate and left.
I explored, swam, ate in the local fish café, napped with the gentle sea sway; and the following morning woke with the dawn, swam at 6:30, dried on the deck with a cup of tea brewed in a mug and then walked/sketched all day returning to doze when required.
Due to the generous host I didn't have to leave until later afternoon making the whole mini-trip feel like a few days. Found myself checking how much it costs to moore a boat, just in case we ever wanted to really downsize. Not sure where the piano would go however.
After all those months of reading, recording, mixing, editing, nearly throwing the computer our of the window, weeping, howling with laughter, dreaming of the finished product, and finally pressing the Good-to-go for audiobook production button, we are starting to get excellent feedback. Some from dear friends, and some from unknown listeners; and today, one from someone who really knows his 'sound' stuff. Sir Robin Millar, CBE. The man with the golden ears - as named by Boy George.
I'd asked him a while back if he might have a chance to listen to Londonia - he'd enjoyed a couple of my short stories - and he said he would. He's a very busy man so I put the idea firmly on the mental back burner and got on with house renovation, working on paintings, planning the next audiobook, and life generally, until an email from Sir Millar this afternoon.
. . . Adored the whole thing conceptually and stylistically, Kate. I would compare it favourably to Gormenghast . . .
Both Mark and I are utterly rubbish at following up anything to do with statistics, demographics of listeners, possible earnings - ha ha, so the audiobook had somewhat slipped away into the cupboard of 'things we've done'. Mr Millar's comment has nicely shaken up our thoughts on the project, and given us a welcome bit of affirmation that it was, and will be, worth all the hard work.
Londonia the audiobook is available on Audible and other platforms. Link below.
https://kateahardy.com/londonia-audiobook
Just a very small one. I opened up Word this morning to write a few lines of my current writing idea and a chirpy suggestion appeared amongst the others that now seem to position themselves at the page header without fail. I don't so much mind the ones that say dull, potentially useful stuff like: write a cringy letter to your bank but 'write a witty post about a sailing trip' made me want to cancel Word immediately - but of course it's too damned useful, especially if you are dealing with publishing agents and the like.
Surely this making us all less curious, less willing to put the real work in, less autonomous, less human.
How we laughed over our chips. Blog post.
So, on a windy Tuesday last week, dressed in our blue and white sailing outfits, we boarded Alan's boat, only to find that a rat had eaten through a plank and that water was slowly filling the hull. Alan had looked up at the amassing storm clouds, shrugged and said, Well, maybe it's a sign. We could have all died out there. Let's go and get chips. So we did, and chortled about our near death Tuesday excursion.
Written by Sean the Word-bot. Or not.
Our new abode is somewhat mysterious in its history. The agent had muttered something about 1960 or 70s, but the electrician discovered wiring he reckoned to be from the 40s, or certainly the 50s. Apparently the building has been added to over the decades - as whatever family lived here had expanded, or the goat shed had been noted as a future extra bedroom, or . . . who knows, certainly the sellers didn't have much idea.
The oddest bit of the house is where I am working to create our bed and breakfast/family and friends logement. The windows and doors appear to be from the 30s, possibly a bit later. Maybe they took them from another building, or maybe there are parts of the house which really are that old. Some of the walls are of the local stone - tuffeau, and some are breeze block, and there's a ton of plaster covering everything in states varying from - wow, this is great plastering! through to - this really ought to come off and we start again. The latter is in the bedroom I am painting/filling/painting. Proper builders like our friend Kevin would shake his head at the dents and grooves I am allowing, but I know when it's all under its final coat and with furniture added it'll look quaint and pretty. No one will see the dinks, and if they do, they won't care as there will be too many other more interesting things to look at. Well, that's my theory.
The oddest of the oddest bit of the house - in said bedroom, is a corner coated in ancient creme gloss paint, interspersed with small squares of fluorescent pink paint, or possibly felt pen. There must have at one time been a small cooker here as there was a chimney flue - now gone, just an inspection chamber left. Also, a series of warped air vents which on further inspection - one was very warped so I took it out - seemed to be just sitting in the wall where no air could pass. Odd. Perhaps the 'builder' had told the house occupants that he had put in special new-fangled air grills which would assure ventilation, and had just tacked them on. We'll never know; there's certainly no 'before and after' photo album from that era.
No one wants them - old, dark wood wardrobes. They sit lined up in our local favourite recycling emporium aware perhaps that the chipboard melamine versions seem to come and go with rapidity. I sort of understand it - if you're looking for light and airy/modern, but we never are. Old, oak, carving, history, craftsmanship; something you can gaze at with a cup of tea in bed and wonder who made it and how long it took them.
Our latest purchase ( I have to stop myself buying all of them) was an extraordinary carved wardrobe which must be a couple of hundred years old, and is probably a Breton marriage wardrobe judging by the info I tracked down. It cost thirty euros . . . less than an Ikea footstool, and was delivered by afore-mentioned emporium taking the grand total to forty-five euros.
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.
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.
"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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
