embarassing bolts on sundays...

 Yes, this Sunday has seen me make yet another bolt for the Bakery...I leave home at about 11.45 in the hopes to reach the Bakery before noon.  Dear Reader - please imagine my nervousness as I skim over pot-holes,slide round piles of rubbish on the road, as I hog my side of the road in the face of an oncomer...whilst trying not to be worried by the ditch on the passenger side to which the car appears to be attracted....

I get to my destination before mid-day, brake carefully once parked in a wide space that allows me to easily get out of the driver's side door...

I breathe, collect my basket from the boot of the car, make sure I have my elephant bag, put the car's keys firmly but carefully into the alloted pocket for car keys, shift everything to my right hand side with my stick firmly in my left hand.   Breathing deeply I walk towards the Bakery door.    Oh, bliss! It opens automatically as I get near the sliding doors - so there will be service after all!

Inside the Bakery are quite a few people wandering around, unperturbed - not even noticiing my frantic entry, concentrated on the bread in their baskets or under their arms.   I stop, I breathe - deeply, noticeably - I slow down and start to look around.

Ah, Dear Reader I can hear you think: but of course, she is in France, Bread is King in France....

...apologies....I was out of wine!

The fine tale of a complicated scam

Today I have had the pleasure of being chatted up by a TDH* bearded man.  On offer was a scheme to reduce my electricity costs by making various changes to the structure of my house.  My house has six ground floor rooms and a bathroom and four larger upstairs room with a library and bathroom, stone and mud construction near 300 yrs old...

His offer was that he would inspect the structure of my house and make suggestions that would, most likely, reduce the future carbon tax and increased electricity prices.  He was armed with a large folder that contained obvious EDF bills, some interesting looking charts with downward going lines....

Unfortunately for him I had mentioned the initial contact to my daughter who got her detective hackles up and started to dig in. It was decided that, rather than cancelling the appointment, we should let it happen and.....Tell the Gendarmes!    (Yes, I can see that looks like the title of a book...)

Firstly the name of the prospective electrician had been given to me by a lady who had driven into my short drive - very evident from the main road - with a request for help about....something...She then told me that there were ways to reduce the possible effect by contacting a certain person. She telephoned and made an appointment for XyX to visit me at home at a specific time.

Then I asked my neighbour in the house just below me if she had an initial contact on the subject of electricity prices later that day..Answer NO. Clever daughter then discovered that the name of my future electrical expert did not exist...

So we decided it would be useful to local society in general if we let the scan go ahead - and keep the gendarmes in the loop..

He came, parked his car - the tenant of the house below mine was opportunately in the vegetable garden with her telephone.   (Yes, yes, in Dordogne you need telephones to help you garden..) So she registered his number plate....And my two quite hefty Dutch workmen who happened to be on site, made notes.

He came in, I offered him a chair with a view to the outside.   My French son-in-law was seated on the opposite side of the table. His dog was weaving its heavy way in and out of the table legs.  After a few questions my son-in-law suggested all this was a waste of time..than the TDH should leave which he duly did.

Son in law then telephoned the local Gendarmes who checked the number plate..car not in the name driver who was supposed to have been my advisor...not a local car, supposed conducter not a local person...possibly not even born in France..

Drinks all round at home!!

 

Warmth, leaves, wind - and and the tree that looked back at me.

 This sunny Sunday - the 3rd of November - was mostly spent by me sweeping up leaves from the terrace outside and - inside the kitchen - sweeping up dead flies..In a way I was glad my garden man was not here to do it - like most men (?) he likes to use machinery to do things...and his leaf-blower is hideously noisy.  He wears it on his back, cigar in mouth, and stomps to and fro.    I had  cleverly put all the chairs on the table so there were no obstacles as I went to and fro. All suggestions as to how to get moss off stone easily gratefully accepted.

In the kitchen it was dead fly time and I confess to having used a fly killer spray - yes, yes, I did cover all the pans, crockery etc (my nose) before spraying.   When I was much younger - and permitted to go up ladders - I did use those sticky coils that you pin to the ceiling.  For some reason the flies are attracted - and get stuck. Then one has to go up a ladder and unpin the sticky mess....

After my hard work I decided a drink on the terrace was merited. I duly supplied myself with a glass of wine and decided to somnole a little whilst resting my eyes on the clump of oak trees on the  corner of the woods.

After a little while I began to feel a little uneasy....I looked around but there were no persons to see...all was unnaturally quiet...I looked towards the trees....there was one looking back at me...!!

Vanishing tree act in the Dordogne

 My house is convienently placed on the 'Route des Plateaux' - once known as the D103. It goes to St Astier and  should be named 'Route des Pins' for on both sides there are plantations of tall,skinny pine trees, naked from their roots until their crowning glory of leaves. I have a curious feeling that they are a recent plantation.

 Driving between them is a curious sensation for while most of them away from the road reach high for the sky, possibly three houses high, the roadside ones seem to lean over passing cars. No, I do not know what variety of pines...some authorities suggest that there are a little short of 200 varieties.  Then, suddenly, a large swaithe has been reduced to neat piles of naked wood, the heads nowhere to be seen.

Apparently most of these will end up as paper - perhaps supporting headlines in newspapers. Some might end up as those light-weight vegetable boxes that you tread down into firewood.  Actually I have noticed that you can 'cut' them up with strong kitchen scissors...

And, once at a meeting of the local Foresters association, in which I am probably the oldest member in years, I remember  complaining about these brief plantations for I have always thought of trees as near eternal deities, not something to be sown and harvested like ....leeks or palms....but something to be treasured and respected - like the ancient oaks.

Numbers can be a Nuisance

 Warning!    the writer of this piece (yes,Me!) admits to being poor with numbers...it started with a 'misadventure' when I was 15 (or so) years old and in an all girls Grammar School.   We had wooden desks with lids...the maths teacher was a woman in her late forties...She had a very powerful voice ( needed for a class of 40 girls!) and liked to use it.

That day our lives were being made miserable by 'fractions'...worse than whole numbers....She picked up her desk lid, looked at us and boomed ...'The Golden Rule of Fractions.....' thumping emphasis from her desk top...My brain shut down, has never recovered... 

The reason for reverting to this painful episode is because the formerly intelligent French postal service also recently got besotted by numbers, each post box (please note the emphasis) has its own four digit number.  Your post is not delivered to 'you' but to 'your name' on a box with a certain number....

I have not dared to enquire about the origin of the four numbers.....some say it is to do with nearest cross roads (in kms), others suggest it refers to the nearest point of usuable water, there is also the (paranoid?) supposition that it has to do with the nearest police station - or hospital....One fantasist of my acquaitance says it is in preparation for deliveries by drone...

Under the old system for very rural areas your postal address was your name, followed by the name of the land area in/on which your house was built, then the name and postal code of your nearest Mairie - the main admin point. But then.....then it was highly likely, if not inevitable, that the post delivery person would be related to those receiving the post...

And now...who receives anything on paper anymore?  Only those of us who refuse to give our email addresses to all and sundry...

Where have all the walnuts gone?

•  So where have all the walnuts gone?    There was I, basket on arm, nettle proof plastic shoes on feet, mobile phones securely in safe places on my person, not quite striding but certainly walking firmly through the ankle high grass. Yes, of course I had my trusty stick with me... I use it to behead dandelions and thistles, also to lift up odd piles of what I can only describe as 'stuff'...to see what is going on.
• The fields have not been mown this year, nor grazed so the grass was moderately high except for the tracks left by the wood-bearing trucks...I had asked for some more firewood to be cut this year because it takes an expletive-deleted length of time to dry sufficiently to be used in the cooker or the sitting room fireplace.
• I cannot even blame the squirrels...we have the proper RED ones here - because they all seem to have gone on holiday somewhere else..
• Local wisdom says 'it was just a bad year' ...which is not very helpful.  But I do worry now about my ideas for planting more walnuts.   I shall need a good weather forecaster first....

Are the northerners hoarding winter?

Well, are the Northern countries hoarding the winter weather storms?  Certainly down here in the French Dordogne (possibly France's most densely wooded county) the leaves are still firmly on the trees and the tree fruit is not ripening.  Is this a dispute between two sets of 'gods'...one that sponsors the cold with some darkness, the other that sponsors the light with very brief, not quite rainy episodes?

As a consequence I am left with a vegetable garden overburdened with tomato plants of various varieties, none of which ripen.  My experience indicates that a fried, or grilled unripe tomato is NOT worth eating.    Unfortunately it is not much better as salad.  Local St Astier (in France!!) overheard gossip suggests what I have to do is to:

put unripe tomatoes in a wicker basket, add apples and bananas, cover with tea-cloth and leave outside in the sun light...

On verra....