A I rant

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. 

painting by a human: Anthony Vandyke Copley Fielding (attributed to, so it could have been AI, but unlikely in 1850)

Road trip number . . .

No idea. I've lost count of them over the years but they take up (welcomely) a large amount of memory space in my head.

As our lad will be coming back home in a few weeks after his studies in carpentry and will cram his current belongings into a small white Clio with no room for his bike, it was the perfect excuse to go and collect said item and have a . . . holiday. A what? Yes, one of those things where you go off somewhere else and don’t carry out all the usual day to day home stuff. I love our new house but haven’t actually left it for ten months for more than about three hours at any one time.

I arrived in Périgueux and located my titchy air b and b flat at the top of an interesting 1930s/40s block and was delighted to be in the middle of a city for a change. Ezra joined me and we wandered at length savouring the unusual experience of choosing a restaurant. A restaurant! I haven’t as many people haven’t, sat outside a restaurant and glanced over a menu for maybe a year and a half? We ate and chatted and discussed what we might do the following day, which would of course involve a lot of meandering in the car and stopping at mostly overlooked and unsung villages and towns. We are still keen to one day jointly produce a book of places that would never be mentioned in any usual guide book - got a good stock of photos ready….

 hallway of my B and B building

                                                   Home is where the tea is - my fave old teapot 

 

After a good sleep, apart from a fruitless mosquito hunt in the wee small hours, I did the usual morning routine and then went to meet Ezra at his college – the Compagnons du Devoir; I’ve probably blogged about the place before but in case I haven’t . . . the C de D is an extraordinary institution which exists to provide intensive and incredibly good quality tuition in practical skills such as carpentry, roofing, plumbing, locksmithery (is that a word?) landscaping, leatherwork, shoemaking, etc. It is intensive with the apprentices working for local companies and learning in the evenings and at weekends but well worth it if you are committed to taking up a trade. 

                Indescribably complex structures being built by a student at the Compagnons du devoir

Kate n’ Ezra road trips generally consist of no planning other than a brief look at a town to head for and then see what transpires, with the proviso that all tangents and derivations are allowed even if the ‘plan’ is altered by noting a roadside sign to an abandoned mine, clump of disused factories, a lake/pond/river that could be get-in-able, etc. The weather should be preferably not bright and sunny but atmospherically misty or drizzly; good for walking and bringing out the best in any insolite (quirky/unusual/bizarre) attributes of a town or village.

                                            House martin nest with several years of poo history

 

The weather was in fact, hot sunny and better suited to straight forward tourism so we opted for a visit to Sarlat le Canéda, a ridiculously pretty Dordogne town, stopping at St Cyprian which was magnificent with its honey stone buildings and narrow back streets, and a vide grenier! (boot sale). I was restrained and only acquired a fanciful late Victorian, Stoke on Trent, two euro, cheese dish – imagine the journey in time and distance this object has made to end up in rural France . . .

Salat was bulging with camper vans, tourists and a few miles of market – mostly dream catchers, knock-off bags, racks of the same clothing, etc and very little local stuff so after a quick tour we moved on. Picnic by a river, lots of exploration of quaint villages, rolling hills and forest, then back to base via a detour to look (no photos) at a bizarre series of cave entrances and serious-looking metal doors where police ‘practice’. The signs didn’t say what they practiced but there certainly wasn’t a visitor center or gift shop.

Supper was chips and deeply suspect meat in batter things at a beer n’ chips emporium that Ezra frequents on a Sunday evening with his college mates. Enjoyable, but a one off for me . . .

The second day dawned promisingly overcast and a lot cooler, ideal for a more random driving day.

I breakfasted first in a small Périgueux square, sketched and listened to the locals as they ate seafood and drank white wine (9 am) . . .

                                                           Lovely rock paving slab in Périgueux

I met up with Ezra and after a brief map-inspection, Brantome was chosen as the start point, not a ‘plus beau village de France’ which seemed odd as it was extremely beau with its abbey (oldest bell tower in the country) wide river, old bridges and parklands. A walk around in the mizzle (mist/drizzle) revealled a gentle unkeptness to the rest of the town which obviously didn’t qualify it for the hallowed badge of PBVDF.

                                                                   Brantome, not a PBVDF

From this point the spontaneous road trip began, wandering across country via an abandoned hamlet, mill and waterway which could have featured in Andreï Tarkovski's Stalker, but a little more picturesque, then onto Riberac, a non-touristy town with two churches, one Romanesque and a larger concrete 50s (I think) small version of the Périgueux cathedral which was experiencing structural problems either due to being made of concrete or being on a hill, or both. Small delights of the unplanned trip - a ‘chemin des abeilles’ – lane of the bees, behind the older church; lovely herb and flower filled gardens, hives and a small building containing interesting info about bees and a glass hive so one could observe the insects' comings and goings.

The day's picnic was enjoyed under the open car boot lid with requested atmospheric drizzle being a little too forceful to sit out in. Roast chicken, tomatoes and strawberries from the Périgueux morning market.

The next town was a Plus Beau village Aubeterre, and was so - ancient stone houses tucked into the hillside, pretty market square, lots of busy restaurants and antique shops and impressive chateau. The rain had morphed from melancholic drizzle to medium downpour so we stopped the wanderings and returned to collect Ezra's bike from his college via villages with intriguing names such as Festalemps and many, many ending with AC (Bardenac, Rouffiac, Brossac, Douzillac, etc,  - apparently ac means water source.

                                                  Magnificent church doorway in Aubeterre

Bee comings and goings

 

        Unusual 50s/40s? concrete and mosaic pillars in the worryingly unstable-looking concrete church

The day ended with cakes eaten in my micro-flat and a hunt for an open restaurant which seemed unlikely on a rainy Sunday evening, but joy of joys, we came across a small Indian/Afghan takeaway, the patron of which warned us that the food would be piquant! Spicy Indian food in France? Nah . . . but it was piquant, and excellent, eaten in the rain overlooking the Dordogne river after a perfect road trip day.

  

 

 

 

  

We know how to have fun

The British on the beach.


                          

Building no 46

At last I went in this café!

                              

Every time I go to Mirepoix, (about half an hour from us) I pass this building and waver dangerously in the road for a moment wondering whether to stop, such is it's allure for me - an ardent fan of ancient eateries and bars.
This time I stopped as Ezra wanted to go and look at the ghost tracks of the railway that would have traversed the landscape between Bram and Mirepoix (why, why, why did they dispose of this incredibly useful connection . . . subject of another post.)
We hesitated by the doorway while I asked if we could bring the dogs in. The owner looked unimpressed, but softened as he noticed the tiny three-legged runt dog. Satie has his uses . . .  Once you get beyond the, "Mais, Madame . . . what happened to his leg?" questions, you can ask lots of others back, like: "how long have you owned the café, is that a picture of you hunting with your own faithful hound, and do you serve chips, etc.
The owner and his mates were so taken by both dogs that The Wife had to be called to inspect them. We had a long chat about dog types, what The Spanish do to their hunting dogs (Gala, see previous posts, is one of these) and life in Moulin Neuf.
We finished our drinks, took photos of the wonderful interior and bade a cheerful goodbye, after suggesting they should never change so much as a drawing pin of the place. He assured us that nothing would ever be replaced, painted or disposed of while he was captain there.

Summer holiday

or days - three, in fact.
Every year when our lovely cousins come and visit, Mark and I leave the Hothouse compound together and holiday somewhere for a few days. This year we went down to our favourite bit of coast - many times rambled on about on this blog - Cerbère.
The sun resolutely refused to shine apart from on a half day out in Gerona, but that was fine. This odd little sea-village is atmospheric in any weather conditions and we passed a lot of time wandering around in the echoing tunnels that run under the huge railway sidings, popping up like meerkats and exclaiming: 'Oh, so that's where that comes out,' etc. We even had the pleasure of listening to the Singing Railings that perform with certain wind directions.
Mark was due to play piano on the beach for the 'Fete de Village' on the first evening, but after a couple of hours of spotting rain it was decided that the event would be cancelled. The roadies packed everything away; our friend the organiser shrugged, said sanguin things like 'c'est comme ça', and invited everyone concerned up to his café to eat mussels and chips, after which I swam alone in the grey sea and marvelled at the village/landscape of yellow and pink buildings, vast arched brick walls that support the train sidings and towering craggy hills under glowering cloud.

      Cerbère

The terrace of the re-conditioned La Vigie hotel

The next day we took the slow train to Gerona and spent a few happy hours ambling through the ancient streets, eating ice cream and trying to find a coat for Mark that would have sleeves long enough (impossible) in the rather cool clothes shops that make up quite a large part of this smart city.

                                                                     Gerona river front

My sort of restaurant where we had tea, mainly so I could snap the interior, including the wonderful old loos

Incredible, ancient general store complete with ceiling fans, a million types of paella rice, and two severe-looking old men who pointed at the No Photography sign when I gestured to my camera after we had bought afore-mentioned rice and Touron - Spanish nougat stuff

 
         Outside of lovely bistro/café

Buildings enjoying the sun at Gerona station

We returned to Cerbère, ate in our favourite restaurant and talked to a party of English cyclists about their tour of the Pyrenees which had taken four and a half days - end to end - pretty impressive; I can just about make it to the bank and back, taking in the small rising hill as one approaches the Hothouse, and, some of the team members were . . . let's say, people who obviously had a happy relationship with cake.
The next day the sky threatened thundery rain, so after a muscle-building walk up into the hills we packed up the unused electric piano and headed homewards, craning our necks to take in a last view of the lighthouse, bay and small clutch of seafront buildings that make up the last coastal town in France before the Spanish border.

                                 Cerbère palm tree with its own: 'I was born in 1974' notice