Extreme bodging

Like extreme sports but a lot less expensive and on the whole less dangerous. Probably doesn't have the cachet of pitching a tent on a sheer rock face, diving two hundred meters into an azure sea or base jumping from one New York skyscraper to another. But it is a challenge, and adrenaline pumping (a bit) when you can see the bodge taking shape.

Take our upstairs windows for example: the single glass panes only held in with the original panel pins and decades old lines of putty which had mainly turned to sand. We'd had an odd job guy round who had stared at the windows, eyebrows arched to their limit and had suggested he'd start with the shutters, but the resulting work was a lower grade bodge even than mine, so I decided I'd attempt the windows, even if it meant standing on a very high ladder to do part of the job.

Extreme bodging has its own special creativity, sort of experimental, like a good dose of improvised jazz - suppose I use this very excellent white wood filler instead of putty? Putty takes weeks to dry; this stuff takes two hours .  . yeah, sounds great. supposing it doesn't last as long? rubbish, of course it will . . . and this weird bent spatular, rather than the correct putty knife? yep, works well! Then the wielding of the masking tape - hate this bloody stuff as it always rips diagonally for no apparent reason - the extreme bodger must have a good eye and steady fingers too bend the tape around the wonky filler, leaving small bits of vacant glass that will fill with paint thus creating a fairly straight edge. Straight enough when viewed from the ground floor and squinting against the sunlight.

It's done. The windows certainly won't fall out, and I'll patch them a little each year like the ground floor ones that underwent the same treatment, and we saved about five thousand euros . . . - quote from PVC window persons. Yep, not good on the heat escaping situation but the old velvet curtains will keep out the worst of the cold. 

Early October

And certain things always come round . . .

My birthday for one, and this year, unlike many where I'm working, or Mark is away on a gig, it was very memorable. 

I got on a train in the early morning, headed for Bordeaux and met someone we follow on various platforms, and greatly appreciate. He bought me lunch and we chatted avidly for a couple of hours. I felt quite bereft when he had to go - a sudden rich encounter probably not to be repeated as he lives on another continent, but you never know. Afterwards I wandered about sketching as I do, slept soundly in my little B and B room and caught the train back early the next morning. Quite an extraordinary day which I will remember all details of, such are those memory forming times.

The other early October happening for us is the making of pomegranate jelly. Never bought ones! they have to be found just like all other fruit we turn into jam. We've been doing this now for about twenty-five years, ever since we moved into our French house in the South which had several 'grenadiers' clinging to a steep and dusty south facing slope in our garden. Each year the harvesting would happen; out would come the chopping board, hefty knife and rubber gloves, and I'd sit outside on the terrace splitting the fruit and scooping out the seeds. 

The yearly crime scene

Since moving Northwards we're still in a pomegranate possible zone although the trees are not common. Such happiness when I discovered a couple of grenadiers in someone's garden in a nearby town. They looked somewhat bemused (the people, not the pomegranate trees) when I asked if we could take some, but six years on, and we're still visiting the tree, making jam and taking the tree owner a pot to thank them.

Wembley? . . . Nah.

House concerts. Slipping back towards the time where most houses, however modest, had a piano in the parlour, and aunty Joan or someone would know how to thrash out a few tunes for a sing-a-long. 

Being fortunate enough to have inherited my wonderful godmother's grand piano, and even more fortunate to have found a house with an unusually ample salon to install it in; and even, even more fortunate to have a brilliant pianist to play the thing as part of the household, house concerts were an early idea when moving here.

This appears to be the future, to my mind anyway. Fuel is going to become expensive enough that people may seriously start considering whether driving two hours to stand within a heaving crowd to listen to live music is actually a fun thing to do. Pub bands, local theatre, pantomime, chamber groups, local choirs, and house concerts might be a better option, along with strengthening local community, and actually meeting your near and slightly further away neighbours.

We put on several concerts last year, one a month, mainly in the winter when most of the town's activity has quietened. Anyone looking for something outside of snuggling in front of Netflix could walk, cycle or drive to engage with some live music. 

On Friday, we started a new 'season' with an evening entitled "London - Past, Present and Future", including book reading from my novel Londonia set in 2072 and piano pieces written by Mark for the the audio book version, pieces by London composers from the time of the 1st World War, moving into the 60s and the 80s with a few iconic songs, and finally "Champagne Charlie" the main song from the 1944 Ealing comedy of the same name, with 'audience participation'!

A wonderful, warm and sociable evening, where we got together with friends, neighbours and music school associates. It's not just the music and the theatre; it's the sharing of food, drinks and above all conversation. It is the future I think, another element in a system that must surely change to local inventiveness, sharing and appreciation of friends and colleagues talents.

Amongst other concerts for this season so far planned : jazz duo friends, opera from Tours, darkly atmospheric oud/bass guitar/modular synth outfit, a concert celebrating the centenary of Morton Feldman - (a favourite composer of Mark's); open mike events, and a celebration of "Fecos" - carnival music from Limoux where we used to live in the south, and a concert of our son and his girlfriend's duo... if I can persuade them.

                            Me reading through the verses of Champagne Charlie

                                                           One of the winter concerts

Very, very, very slow fashion

The tale of a 1980s Gaultier shirt.

The garment appeared in my life after I bought it a second hand clothes shop in Birmingham in about 1985, then it continued to feature in my wardrobe until last week, September 2026. I'd worn it a few times each summer but after more than forty years! maybe I'd grown used to it just hanging there and other garments had taken preference. So, I put it on Vinted and someone in Spain bought it. 

Made in France, re-sold in Birmingham, worn in the Uk and all over France, and now, new life in Spain.

Just goes to show, an originally, no doubt, expensive garment lives on, decades after anything Fast Fashion would have hit landfill. Vive second hand!

Update . . . didn't stay long in Spain as the woman complained that it was a bit old . . . Vintage with a very small price tag for a Gaultier shirt! Anyway, it was returned with no hard feelings on either side. 

I think it is a sign. It wants to return to me. In fact the main reason why I stopped wearing it was that there are no cuffs, and it's not possible to roll up the sleeves. I don't like feeling trapped in garments when it's hot. The solution - I will alter it with my weird needlework abilities, or perhaps my soon-visiting expert seamstress cousin will have a go at it. To be continued . . .

Things I know very little of

but, I'm trying to learn a bit about . . .

Anyone following this blog will know I am deeply sceptical of almost anything A I related, mainly as being involved in the art and music worlds it's terribly depressing to watch everything heading slop-wise, well, not everything, but far to much. Plus of course adding massive problems to our already overloaded planetary bio systems.

 

Following on from a few posts back where I posted an at-that-time recent video by someone who really knew their A I stuff, this is an up to date look at where we are at. And, if what he says is true . . . well, humankind sawing off the branch we are sitting on seems to be a 100 % understatement. 

It's a complex subject and I've watched this through twice to try and gain at least the basics. Great interview with some weirdly funny moments like where Conner states that in the last decades that the AI firms have domesticated the nerds - come in, free food, endless math, great wages, I paraphrase as I can't find the exact bit now.  

As someone trying to write a futurist novel set in 2093, imagining what happens next up until that point is beyond a challenge. Think I'll just leave a sort of blank and the reader can fill it in with their own ideas of apocalyptic events. There's a few to choose from . . .

Musical experiments and conclusion

Banjo, drum kit - both electronic and 'real', electric and acoustic guitar, bass guitar, piano, keyboards, violin, mandolin, mini-synthesisers made out of recycled electronic components...vibraphone (might have happened if it hadn't been a rather too expensive musical experiment). All virtually self-taught to an impressively high level. For his very first instrument, the banjo, we signed him up for some online tuition from The Bluegrass Academy in Louisiana.

Our son's musical pursuits have always been fascinating, but the guitar has been the phase that has extended into permanency. Personally I was very sad when the violin ceased to be played but I understood the constraints - the need for a good teacher which was not possible at the time, the fact that he had started rather late, at twenty-five rather than five, and trying to find a local Irish band to join in rural France wasn't happening.  

The guitar is always there, a quick tune, or not even and it's ready to go; perfect for composing, accompanying songs, or just noodling away on at a gathering or in the bedroom, compact, portable, and versatile.

When I met him yesterday there was talk of visiting the local guitar shop as he has been idly viewing a certain Gretsch model and was curious to see if it was in stock. I'm always up for a music shop trip so we went. It wasn't in stock but there was a very handsome and almost flashy orange and gold Gretsch which was not quite the one he wanted - possibly luckily as just under a thousand euros would have required some very serious justification . . . mind there's a fair amount of music related unused stuff that could be sold waiting in the garage or his old room should it become a reality.

I sat and watch him play with that parental joy that can only come from watching the fruition of a rather remarkable musical talent born of all the previous experimentation and development over the years. 

I suspect he'll be ringing for a chat fairly soon about whether it should be the orange one, the blue or the olive green . . .

The orange Gretch

Several years ago in his Bordeaux student digs with the old Epiphone that I found in a house clearance
 

A glimpse of island life

I have been spoilt this year - at least four trips to the sea, each time short visits but all the more memorable for that.

I'd tried to book an interesting looking cabin in someone's garden on the île-d'Arz a couple of months back but being full on holiday season it was unavailable. Beginning of September, la rentrée has happened and suddenly everything quietens down dramatically. This particular island has around two hundred and fifty permanent residents but on an average high season day the number can rise to anything around two thousand - non residents plus the permanent folk - unless they've had the foresight to let their place and escape somewhere else. 

Rucksack packed and dog in tow we arrived on the foot passenger ferry (no cars for visitors) half way through the afternoon and walked to our rustic lodgement situated in a small village a couple of km from the main 'bourg'. 

Old veg brought from home made into a fry up, following exploration walk, a drink in the local very  interesting bar/epicerie, and we were ready to sleep.

The following morning started with my sea-swimming obsession. No one about and a large curving beach to ourselves. The tide was a fair way out so walking on a soft sand carpet was part of the swim; water lovely temperature and sun rise through the pine trees bordering the coast. Perfect. A top five swim of this year.

Mark's first sea dip of the year

The day passed in bike rides, more exploratory walks, investigation of the main town (big village) and its very beautiful and incredibly ancient church (C12th); naps, excellent lunchtime crêpes, an equally excellent fish dinner in the embarkment point hotel - L'escale - with its bay views.

It was a small glimpse into island life, and I have many questions to ask a local next time about how you might get a new mattress/furniture generally/breeze blocks/gas bottles/ anything really thats more tricky to carry than a couple of carrier bags of purchases. There's only one small shop too, and I couldn't see much signs of food being grown there, so the passenger ferry and larger ferry for the vans and cars that we did see are obviously total life lines all year round.

There were unused wells dotted about all over the island from days when water didn't appear from a pipe line from the mainland - I did look this up as I couldn't imagine there was a huge aquifer under the island - did I get grade E in A level geography . . . yes.

Also, incredibly! there was no boulangerie on the island . . . a bit sad as I learned from a museum visit that each hamlet had its own bread oven, wheat was grown and there was tide-powered water mill - now reconstructed but not used. Perhaps this will change in the future, the mill wheel once again turning, bread ovens constructed. 

The old tidal mill

There are several other islands in the Golfe de Morbihan, including the largish île-aux-Moines 

(monks), and small ones, some inhabited, others not. Future trip . . . I hope so.

                                                        Dog, less keen on ferry than me

                                                         camera on panorama mode on a boat

C'est pas mon truc . . .

It's not my thing.

One of the more 'bof' - Gallic shrug - reactions to my exposition of paintings. I also had a comment yesterday that they should be more colourful. This is odd as most people have walked in and started back at the colourfulness of everything. Maybe it was time to get an eye test? or perhaps he shared the vision of the average dog - a rather grey spectrum according to the last research I read about this subject.

                                                              two not very colourful paintings

The vernissage (private view) went very well; lots of people, masterly improv music from Mark and Jérôme, wine from NOZ - I have blogged about Noz before - bizarre shop full of everything from dog chews to pants to baked beans to . . . wine, and often amazingly good wine; and since all my work is about recycling materials it seemed fitting to buy abandoned wine. And I sold enough paintings to make the whole event worthwhile. 

                                 Another fairly colourless painting underway in the gallery

Jérôme and Mark

So, two more days of sitting in that marvellous space wondering if the next person will be non-plussed or delighted by the work. I've had some fascinating visitors and some in depth conversations about environmental issues, recycled everything, my personal art process, and many questions about how long a painting takes - always challenging to answer.

I'd like to say thanks here to several people who made the event happen and happen in such a great way.

Mark - my partner in life and art, and jointly useless person at selling anything. He's been brilliant in all ways, and without him I certainly wouldn't have the art book we made before the expo.

Pierre, Hazel and Louise who were so generous with their time, and muscles, moving quantities of furniture and paintings into the space. we couldn't have done it without you!

And thanks to the Mairie of Saumur for letting us use this beautiful old chapel. What a space!

In case

                   You happen to be in or near Saumur during the next few days...

 

Essential viewing/listening

I think this is one of Nate's finest.

Please listen to this calm and helpful analysis of where we are now at this complicated time, and what we can all do moving forward, even if the steps are small. Please share too.

Summer holiday

With the lad, and the dog . . . the whole pack back together for a few days. Wonderful.

As the weather had been stifling - as in most places - I had sought out somewhere coastal, but as it was rather a late investigation, and we had the mutt too there wasn't much choice. But, as things often turn out if you go with the available option and hope for the best, we ended up in an utterly non-touristy and very interesting - to us anyway - spot on the Loire sea estuary. I'd noticed the name before when studying a map of the region - Paimboeuf, something-beef, weird but playful, quickly becoming known, within the family unit, as Bread-Beef. 

The town website shows the clutch of colourful harbour houses but fails to show the full splendour of the petrol refineries of 'Donges' on the opposite river banks; a surreal collection shapes and chimneys that could grace a sci-fi film storyboard. 

We immediately loved the place: the faded grandeur of the more once-prestigious residences, the abandoned and semi-derelict other buildings; the calm, no nicknacks, the history to soak up. Paimboeuf was saved from the war bombs as far as I could see but the residents would have witnessed the mass bombardments on St Nazaire just beyond Donges. Now you can just make out the vast cruise ships being manufactured in the city's docks and the elegant suspension bridge linking the land on both sides of the Loire's sea-arrival.

Sadly, long-gone station - closed in the 90s

Our lodgement was characterful and comfortable; the dog didn't eat the host's cats, and the house was perfectly placed in a quiet street (although I'd imagine, everything is fairly quiet there) very near the quayside - a short walk in the cooler morning to the boulangerie, or a beer at the quirky and marvellous 'café de la Loire' at sundown to admire the distant refineries under the evening's last rays. 

                                      Café de la Loire where we did a little improv concert

Two days of exploring, swimming (not in the estuary, although I might have tried if everyone else hadn't said that it was a stupid idea) - at the nearest beaches, sitting around reading, sketching, cooking, enjoying a little local cuisine and admiring Christian Champin's wry humoured and brilliant sculptures which were displayed on the quays.

As ever, these precious short term jaunts seem to morph into longer time expanses, packed with experiences to be recalled and savoured. Think we'll be going back to Bread-Beef, possibly to experience the out-of-season version as well.

                                                                  V tired but happy dog

Childhood brain imprints

I have hundreds: the kitchen of our Muswell Hill flat and its old green enamel gas stove, the purple bathroom walls, the interior of the local greengrocer's, the walk to school; garden marigolds and hollyhocks, Mum's ancient piano covered with piles of music, her hoards of newspapers and books, amongst which were her small volumes of Gerard Hoffnung's wonderful musical cartoons.

   

 

I must have thumbed through these hundreds of time, my gaze resting on a few of my very favourites, such as the ones above. I was always drawing but mainly animals, objects and fantastical creations, but I think the essence of Hoffnung must have sunk in as in more recent years I've started sketching people, not very accurately but rapidly, trying to catch within a few lines a character, a facial expression, crossed legs, hunched or attentively upright. 

Often the drawings don't really capture what I am witnessing but occasionally they do. I was pleased with this one of three musician friends in Mark's gamelan group. It was only about a minute and a half but I think it borrowed that moment in time - their distinctive respective hair cuts - or not - beards; the bell like musical sounds, and the intense heat of that afternoon under shady trees in the garden of the Max Ernst museum a few kilometres from where we live.

Assumptions and lessons to learn

Yep, you learn something each day, and probably lots of things.

I was listening to a Nate Hagens 'Frankly' episode (No 147) on Youtube recently titled, It's not what you think, mainly about assumptions we construct, and choices we make without leaving space to actually observe and consider. It, as with most of his work, really made me think, and made me set up a few resolutions about not jumping to conclusions based on what I think I know, or what I might assume.

Case in point: at the weekend we had a couple of B and B guests arrive from the site, Greengo. I'm keen to use Greengo more as their mission is to encourage ecological actions - as far as going on holiday can be ecological. 

I welcomed the couple in and the guy said where shall I park the car? I glanced through the gate at a monster car about three times the size of ours and with bronze alloy wheels, smoked glass, and . . . a sticker above the exhaust pipe reading 'Fuck you Greta'. For a second I thought he must have an evil aunt or other relative and then it dawned on me that it meant Greta Thunberg. And there was a second sticker on the back window of flipping the middle finger. Ok... French drivers can really hug one's boot so maybe fair enough but the F Y Greta sticker . . .

                                                           It wasn't quite this absurd . . .

So my mind went into assumption overdrive - he'll hate the B and B full of old recycled furniture and our carefully considered, friendly notices about going easy on the water for the environments sake (and our water bill which going to be scary this year), there's no air conditioning - they must be used to that with such a vehicle; what about the breakfast they'd ordered? Will they like the home made bread with bits in it, the odd but tasty plums I'd picked on the morning dog walk, the weird reclaimed tiles in the kitchenette, the old but clean shower, the strange flower containers made out of old baths, etc etc . . .

So, I showed them around and left them to have a rest before setting out again to the local rose festival in their massive car. I told Mark who was absent for a couple of days about the car and sticker, and he immediately thought all the same stuff. By the end of the day I'd even worked out my artistically ironic reply to the review that would be left by them on the site after their departure.

The next day I carefully laid out the breakfast (first time in our new B and B) to which they appeared delighted, commenting on how nice it was to have real home made bread and jams. Things seemed to be going well; I paced about a bit wondering if the lodgings would be left in a mess; they probably had cleaners, having a car like that . . .

So they left, polite and friendly as anything, said how much they'd enjoyed the stay and what a lovely place it was. I waved them off, suddenly glad I hadn't removed the sticker or scrawled Trump over Greta. 

But, the review. Maybe the truth would come out - pictures of the strange tap and sink arrangement, the spider and its family I'd forgotten to remove, the tasteless coffee, the dog next door that had barked once in the night, the heat . . .

Greengo site informed me there was a review waiting, once I had done mine - I hate this bit; it's all too much like that Black Mirror where everyone but everyone reviews each other constantly - err, bit like now really. I did my polite review of 5 stars, as they had merited it - quiet, respectful, tidy, and there was no  'absurd, pretentious car' category. I refreshed the page and there was my review: 5 star, glowing, friendly. They'd really loved our place, and me as a host.

                                                               Black mirror - Nosedive

I put the sticker to the back of my mind and thought about how different we all are, the experiences that shape us, our likes and dislikes, those of our parents and the sort of educations we have had. They were friendly and appreciative, just a little different to me in their opinions. And that's really ok.

 . . . Maybe they'd borrowed the car and actually drive a small electric Ford Fiesta. Probably not. 

                                Our B and B kitchenette with strange tap and sink arrangement.

                                        B and B https://lapenichesurlacolline.blogspot.com/

Impossible

to imagine . . .

-1 or so on a February day when all you can think about is not falling over on black ice, getting indoors to make a cup of hand-thawing tea and wondering how early one could light the wood stove.

I think this was the day I walked to the hospital -which only about a two minute normal walk - for a RDV which I didn't want to postpone. Think it took about twenty minutes with nordic walking poles, and many thoughts about what would get damaged if I did slip.

Today, 10/07/2026, I am sitting indoors with all the shutters closed having done the 5:30am dog walk/watering, bird baths sorted etc, and having walked into town for a meeting and catching an air-conditioned bus back. I'd like to go and sort the garage out but it's about 38 degrees in there. So, afternoon of painting, reading and B and B prep.

                              The reasonably cool kitchen/ temporary music/art studio

Free food, and adaptation

Many trees are struggling here this year with high temperatures and dry conditions but give a fig tree a shady wall to grow behind . . . and the results are incredible. Our neighbours ignore these gems but me, the starlings and blackbirds are delighted that they do. 

Just back from a dog walk and I've added to my mental fruit map a line of plum trees, pears and blackberries but I think the latter will not be very productive this year apart from the ones with their feet down into a source somewhere. 

Having lived here for a year and almost a half now I'm beginning to note what will grow and where, or rather what won't grow in places we assumed they would. So, next year, more hardy herbs such as rosemary, thyme, and sage. More apricot, peach trees, and olives; less apples! Rampent 'trumpet' vines, fruit vines, anything with greyish leaves, ornamental grasses - used to dislike these but they are sturdy as hell and will be featuring more in the top garden.

The 'bath' beds work very well, even in very sun-exposed spots, with their wooden box surrounds the heat stays out and water stays in. Someone donated us a super ugly white plastic one recently with odd raised areas but we'll make it work with some recycled bamboo cane or planks, and I'm on the lookout for more as chillies and, oddly, cucumbers seem to like the bath environment even in full sun.

Ok, off to water the strawberries, which I forgot last night.

Needs must art creation

So, it was edging towards 40 degrees and I was preparing our B and B room to then discover that our vintage Calor fan was making not-conducive-to-sleep grinding noises. too late to trawl the second hand sites for a more tranquil model; it would have to be a SHOP. And of course, it's a canicule (full on heat wave) and there were no fans to be had, anywhere. Friends were of course using theirs, and my tiny 1950s one is really only good for cooling the area of an elbow. 

I hunted about, thinking we had hidden away a metal cage variety but then remembered its incurable rattling sound which had finally sent it back to the recycling emporium. During a previous heatwave, our cousin had left us with, amongst many lovely presents - such is their generosity - a small fan from afore mentioned emporium. A small fan with no 'leg' to stand it on. It would be better than nothing if a support could be found. A sally forth into the furnace-garage procured a lidless metal teapot, a chisel and some rags. The teapot was a good heavy base, the chisel fitted the fan's head, and with the application of black paint, well, it works and I rather like it as a piece of desperation-art.

Somewhere, and I know I have featured this before, we have a beautiful little book of Russian desperation-art; hand crafted multi objects for domestic usage - TV ariels made of forks and coat hangers, a doormat made from beer bottle tops, and many other ingenious objects using whatever could be found. Think my fan could have had its place in the book.

Later a friend came back to me and said she had a spare fan, so our guests will have something a little more normal, and powerful, and the art-fan is now in residence on this desk where I write.