The real reason why I gave up driving.

 It was one mid-to late evening that I was driving from St Astier down towards Tocane St Apre....I am not sure of the distance between the two county towns but I have always been aware of the speed on the road between them that I finally gave up driving....

Then - I forget which year - the budget for local road improvement had a rush of tarmac to the head.    Yes, the road was widened, its surface was smoothed, weeds and encroaging small trees removed.   In short, much fun was had by all - except for this 80 year old driver who gave up the steering wheel.

Sometimes as I go to collect the post and watch the thundering hords  go by....I have noticed that - at about dusk - there is always a car about to leave the woods and venture fast on the road ...then suddenly there is a sort of hiccup as the traffic slows....it seems that a car is venturing out from the woods onto  the main road.   The traffic slows...

Some clever person has put head lights attached to his trees - these are spotted by passing, slowing traffic.    They are only head lights - no car attached - but it does the trick.   The drivers slow down....

A question once asked - now answered.

 Sometime ago I found I had scribbled on one of those lovely tiny orage note pads;...?when does one become irrelevant???...

At various times I posed this question to random passersby as well as to friends and family.    I never verbally got a straight answer. But the answers came  nonverbally - I was ignored, information did not come through to me...

But I have my revenge:  (I was always a control freak...). I am not signing ANYTHING that asks for a direct debit to my bank account for its services..

 When your house number is four successive digits ,  pushing at a long verbal name for the road on which it sits, you would think that somewere there must be an indication of public transport services.  Wrong!  This is London, London is different....

Other people's oddities...

 Are so much more interesting than my own - at least to me...As I eventually ended up in my 80th year, I was worried about any possible oddities in my behaviour....

Yes, alright, I gave up driving my car - that seemed sensible all round, not just because of possible accidents caused by me - but more seriously because the  occasional driver of my car (which he wants to buy) is a Very Attractrive Young Man...with blue eyes to die for..

Also he speaks Dutch - I was born Dutch over 80 years ago but I seem to be able to express myself, and understand what he  says, with very little problem...also he smokes Dutch cigars - just as my Dutch grandfather used to - and the odor takes me back to my childhood....Grandfather in his terrace chair, smoke rising from his mouth and the birds hovering for the grains from ....whatever he was eating.

So far, so good - but now I have found myself wondering about the difference btween two different types of breakfast  cereal....there are the rectangular blocks of mixed grains and there are also ones with rounded edges....I study the contents description..which is the better, are the tastes different....fortunately finding yesterday's newspaper usually distracts me from this absurdity...

And now this obsession has transferred itself to fire lighters which also come in different shapes....of which I use a lot as both my Rayburn cooker and the sitting room fire are lit by such...

And that is probably a comment on the quality of the TV programmes whether in English or French -  I now live mostly in France...

Fortunately there is always a glass of wine close by...

The France is still there..

 As I was wandering up the path to my post-box - strategically situated on the main road between Tocane St Apre and St Astier, almost equally between the the two. ... I stopped and looked - as a good Dutch girl I can recognise St Nicolas anywhere, the long white beard was perfect...But this was a little odd - he was coming from the Tocane end and it was not nearly official postal delivery time 

Now, take a breath every dear reader - France is no longer a casual, almost Latin like, form of administration. There are rules about what can delivered where - and when - There are rules about the delivery of bills - say electricity - and the date limit by which it they should be paid, with possible penalties. Demands are made for the customer to permit direct debits from their bank accounts.   My instinct says ' no way, not ever' - never mind the possible discounts.

Then the wood delivery man arrived just before lunch - trailing a large cart with chunks of coursely cut but very dry wood.    My own wood is not yet dry enough to use for heating and cooking - it  takes over two years at least.  We greeted each other as old friends - I buy from him regularly as my own wood dries.  

From behind his ear he drew a rather battered receipts book, thumbed over the pages until he found a blank one.   He then quoted me two rates;   one would be handwritten on dublicated paper and would include a charge for local tax, to be paid by cheque.  The other book would produce a different total - one without tax  - to be paid in cash.

We looked through my cash wallet and decided on the latter.  The real France is there somewhere.... 

Elephant give- away....

 Today I gave away two elephants....no ..obviously not the literal animal but in various materials and sizes.  The object was always the same:   to bring good luck, happiness...or at least comfort to the recipient?   Why elephants?  Reader, this story dates back to my very earliest days .....back to when about 6 years  old I sat at a strange desk, in a strange country with a strange language - and looked at the pictures in my 'Babar the Elephant' book....the original one published way back in the 30's...my first comfort in a strange country

A rural romance?

After some 40 years living in rural France, land and woodland in the deepest Dordogne I am gradually coming to the conclusion that one cannot own -in the proper sense of the word -  land in France.

This latest support to my theory is (I think) quite funny. Half of the land I 'own'  ( as widow woman)is deeply wooded land - the rest is scrub pasture that needs to be mowed by humans and shit fertilised by four legged  domestic animals of some kind.  

My most recent employee (Dutch like me, with blue eyes to die for) is in charge of both fields and woodlands. He uses chain-saws, electrical log splitters, 'my' tractor for transporting it all which I appreciate.....Then we sit side by side at the long kitchen table as we discuss things and scabble notes onpaper.  He says his litle prayer, thinks of his childrem

Today, as I opened my eyes I found him sitting at the head  of my table...looking at me with those blue eyes...I shut  my brain down very quickly....

Cars, tears.....and generally being sentimental - or stupid

 Deciding to give up driving cost me some hard moments - and not a few tears.  Some people even congratulated me on my decision.  There it is done and my beloved Audi is now in the (more or less) safe hands of Blue Eyes - my Dutch friend and occasional worker.  When he gets the money together he will buy it ....of course, one has to allow for French bureaucracy to get in the way of something so simple as a car sale and purchase...but there it is, under way. This evening, as I went to the woodshed where Audi used to be parked ....Reader!  there was annother black car!!!  And yes, I burst into tears...But at least I can now have a Large Drink without worry.... Tactfully the neighbours have parked their car elsewhere...

the eternal oak --- lifespan

 This winter day slowly comes to its close

I watch the fading sun disappear

behind the pine trees  across the valley

that makes the limts of my land..

It could be this world's end...

But nearer to my high stone terrace

Two aged oaka loom their heavy heads

to shade my glass of wine.

I sense disapproval - take another sip,

feel defiant as I lift my glass to them

....and to me...

And then I remember it - a flat circle of a oak

its rings suggest an age beyond the human

perhaps more than 300 years in th earth

rings beyond human counting...

Had it beem left unencumbered

to die its potential span...mass destruction

of younger trees, of homes, cars, gardens

all human clutter

would have been buried for all eternity..

An inconvenient or a good decision?

It was only a few months ago - just shortly after the great bathroom disaster - that I pulled into a parking space, turned off my beloved Audi's deep rumbling engine  and allowed a decision to be born.   I would no longer drive. This decision was mulled for at least a good 20 minutes before I decided to get home and let everyone know. 

By the time I got home I was shaking., I gave myself a glass of Chardonnay - in one of the lovely green crystal stemmed glasses inherited from my grandmother when she opted to no longer drink, then died at eighty.

And there it is - the evil figure - I am now 80 years old. In the past few months  I was finding driving more and more frightening.   Was I driving the Audi - or was it driving me?   Had I become a bad driver - or was everyone else behind a steering  wheel  dangerous ?  The rumour went round that I was prepared to sell my Audi... 

This decision is, of course, an imposition on my children as now my transport has to be organised.   However, an earlier decision - that I needed carers to help in my daily life - proved very useful.  Most of the carers have their own cars and are happy to take me shopping or to the pub.    My favourite outing is now a trip down to St Astier where I collect my usual papers and some cash - New York Times and Liberation - and then sit in the cafe with a glass of wine.

Oddly, one of my favourite drivers is the painter - a Dutchman with blue eyes to die for - who is fixing the upstairs bathroom.  He takes me down to St Astier in the Audi (which he is hoping to buy), we collect our newspapers - The New York Times, Liberation, Sud-Ouest, sometimes The Economist - and settle into the cafe - outside usually. He lights up his cheroot - an odour that reminds me of my Dutch grandparents - and , in the middle of the Dordogne, talk to each other in Dutch.   

As so often in the country - this story is about stones....and the importance of roof tiles....and the eveil of rain

 Some weeks ago there was a thunderous descent of stones into our upstairs bathroom...struggling with swearing about the non visiblity of my slippers...I was nearly flushed back by the flow of water down the stairs.   Disaster laughed at me - wetly. 

The  bathroom upstairs had just melted into gludge which itself was soakiing the wooden floor that was the ceiling of the downstairs bathroom.  Hopelessly I tried to push the flow into the sanitary loo bason..

Then gave up in order to find as many buckets to catch the water below...Eventually my battered mind remember where the mains water intake was.......yes, in the glass veranda outside where it was also pouring with rain.

The upstairs bath had become detached from its wall, tilted crazily to the floor. Fortunately the loo was still  more or less upright - but unsteady.

Enough sordid detail, the Gread Tidy Up had to start.    Fortunately I knew a couple of local men who were used to this kind of operation.  I let them use my beloved Audi break and a remorque to take 'stuff' to the local dechetterie (= official dump site).

As the site got cleaner, as I was again able to use my downstairs bathroom, shower loo and all...we all gathered round the kitchen table to speculate on the origins of this disaster.

The plasterer suggested a possibility: that there had been a minute rain leak between a couple of roof tiles over the years which penetrated into the plaster of the bathroom.  This weakend the plaster walls in the bathroom which then dropped into the bath...and so everything fell over...

It seems plausible - no point is summoning the insurance - but definitely a revision of the roof - and general restoration of the upstairs bathroom, bath, wash basin and loo. All the plaster and wood would be covered in a heavy, shiny dark blue paint - new lights would be installed and  all porcelain or china objects disinfected and re-installed.

It has been done.....I am waiting for my first summer guests to come...and be brave.

The impact of an 80th...

 It is only three months or so - from today (24.01/) that I made the fateful decision to give up driving...I gave it up because at times on the Dordogne rural roads that I have known for over 40 years - I felt unsafe -  incompetent....and definitely worried about the speed of others on the road...

My nearest shopping town is some 12 kms or so down hill from my house....the road width is not up to the super size lorries and wild trees keep falling into the road - when not actually being cut down.

Why did I give up you might want know ...because I had just passed my 80th birthday is the simplest answer. But the cherry is that I have found a very charming, good looking, local part time driver who will take me anywere I want....using my car. Or perhaps that is the real reason.

Good by Audi - good by independance

 Dear Readers!   

prepare yourself for a shock - even if it is only the one that hits me...some months earlier this year, in deepest rural Dordogne I woke up in my warm country bed whilst in my early 80's - warm because its mattress was covered with an electrical heated stretch sheet. (sorry readers, such is apparently NOT available in France).  I went to the kitchen, refilled my water bottle and brought back of a cup of tea....somewhere under the bed was whatever I was reading last night...and I began to think....

Thinking led to the decision to give up driving....whilst I still had all confindence in my Audi I no long had in my judgement behind the wheel.

I decided I would no longer drive....unsafe for me, unsafe for others on the road. My decision has been well accepted by all who are affected by it - with great kindess and some comfort - and a lot of help.

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....