‘Oh swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon that monthly changes in her cycles orb lest your love prove thus inconstant’. So pleaded Juliet to her Romeo in the first demanding throws of their love affair, so brief but so eternal. Change is all around us – creeping up on us in the dead of night and taking us over before we even notice. Sometimes we do notice and we protest but mostly life is too encompassing and we let it be – like the moon waxing and waning and imperceptably altering but seemingling holding an eternal rhythm. Everything changes, nothing stays the same.
The necessary PS: The picture was taken in winter at Milhac not 10 miles from here … my husband goaded me that the moon was an accident. It wasn’t – it was one of the first moments in my embryonic photographing life that I actually saw and shot rather than just shot and hoped for the best. I bite my thumb at thee, HB²!
It was The Venomous Bead who unwittingly reminded me of my father stalking his small children and afterwards his grandchildren and terrifying them as he growled ‘I’m a Troll, Foll de roll’. This might seem a peculiar introduction to a story but I promise you, it has relevance. Possibly tenuous. But a relevance. The picture was taken on Thursday … Two Brains and I were on our way to a light walk near St Etienne de Chomeil of which more in a later post, and this beauty happened to be in the road wondering slightly desparately which way to scamper. We noted that in two days it would probably be a gun rather than a camera it faced since the hunting season opened here yesterday and we wished it winged feet and guile to avoid the orange and camo-clad hunters who will stalk it til the end of February. As you can see it fleetly rehearsed its escape across he fields to the nearby woods.
I’m a Troll? Folldy Woll? What the … ? It’s the story of the ‘Three Billy Goats Gruff’ for the uninitiated. The Troll that terrifies the goats lives under the bridge and the relevance is this … I have three Billy Goats of my own to tell.
Early summer and The Bean and I walked up on les Orgues de Bort. We do this more than occasionally and it is a lovely walk. We see the massifs in the distance and the Dordogne snakes below.
We have passed a field of pygmy goats often and in fact my youngest daughter has insisted that we need stunted goats when we find our forever house. This day in May I turned a hair-pin bend and came across a baby pygmy in the road. He didn’t want to be there and was bleating loud, plaintiff and continuous. All his field mates were helpfully and gustily returning bleats. There was a fair amount of traffic on the plateau and I didn’t want a squishered goat so I set about finding his owner. Simples – there are only a couple of houses. Cars were bearing down on me so I turned on my hazards (the car was across the road where I had jammed the anchors and leaped out with goat-like agility and it is yellow so frankly unmissable) and walked purposefully to the nearest house. The goat bleats. I shout. In vain as it turns out. The goat bleats. I turn tail and walk down the hill aware of the hostile drivers blocked by my car. They can be forgiven for clearly believing the goatlette is mine. The Bean leaps out of the car. I call her manfully to heal and surprisingly she obeys. The Goat is less obedient so I nip back to the car and grab Bean’s lead thereby reinforcing the illusion that the goat is mine to the increasingly hostile queue of cars. I noose the goat … the goat continues to bleat. The Bean trots purposefully at my side clearly cast in her perfect role and I can’t shake Julie Andrews warbling ‘High on a Hill lives a lonely goatherd Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo’ – my obsession with the songs of the Sound of Music is well rehearsed with my children – in fact it was an effective torture when I wanted to get them swiftly to school as smalls but it proves less effective with actual goats. Lesson learned. I knock at the door of the only other house in the vicinity. A young man answers. ‘Is this be your Goat?’ I demand in my traditional Spanish Cow French ‘Mon Dieu – yes’ he replies (in actual French) … he grabs it, does not say thank you but is clearly overwhelmingly grateful and rushes off to find out how the devil it managed to break free. Though not exactly feted I feel puffed with pride that I have saved this tiny goats life.
That is my first goatee story.
This Friday my husband took me out for dinner. We rarely do this – partly because we are rarely together which is not as we wish it to be. I dressed up. So did he. We looked damned fine to be fair. The Salle de Fete (I have told you this before) is in my garden (actually the garden and the building belong to the village but in my mind they are be mine) …. there was a party brewing. We stood aside as my young neighbour screeched up the drive in his pick-up … he is young, this is his normal modus. As he stepped out of the truck complete with kennels on the back, I said ‘the hunting season starts, no?’ and he responded automatically ‘demain’ (tomorrow) and then I heard it … bleating! From the kennel on the back of his pick-up there clearly emitted a bleating. He noted my noting and said ‘it’s my brothers birthday – that’s the party’ (it was his 25th it turns out) …. a strange explanation for what he showed me … two sweet little black and white pygmy goats in luminous orange collars with bells on. He rushed off wihout further commentary. We drove out for dinner delicious. Today I ran into his girlfriend and asked how the party went (the last men were still just about standing and shouting amiably at 7 a.m incidentally) She rolled her eyes magnificently as she told me it was a triumph – apparently the young birthday boy had been led to believe he was getting a pair of hunting dogs for his birthday. The pygmy goats dressed in their hunting attire were presented to his chagrin and the delight of the assembled gathering.
So there you have it …. three Billy Goats. Though none of them Gruff I would give them all a home any day and the deer can have my sanctuary though I fear I have nothing more than wishes and prayers (though I’m not a praying woman) as we embark on the next six months of hunty mayhem across France.
PS: I took The Bean for a walk in the village today (the first weekend of the season is NOT the time to be out and about walking in the wilds) and a chap bearded me for a chat … down from the Somme he told me he has an Irish Setter with which he hunts. I asked him why he was not out on this important weekend … it turned out that in the North they started the season last weekend and he had come down to join the frollics at the Salle de Fete – his cousin’s son’s birthday … guess what, he said – they promised him two good hunting dogs and gave him a pair of goats – how hilarious is that? … I didn’t disappoint him by telling him I already knew.
I grew up in a malecentric world. Sandwiched between two brothers and with numerous boy cousins (all much older than me) I learned to perform young. My latent Lily Langtry was my ticket to inclusion in boy games whence otherwise I would have been barred. I remember one Autumn day, damp and musty my brothers and I were playing in the front garden. My father re-gravelling the drive, we were probably supposed to be helping. But my older brother had a better idea. It involved a rubber snake. I was briefed, repeated back my instructions to ensure I accurately understood, little brother confirmed that father was unable to see big brother planting the ductile serpent in the undergrowth and once all was point perfect I took my cue and ran out of a copse of trees screaming hystrionically at the top of my voice. My father instantly rushed to my aid and I stammered sssssnnnnnaaaake whilst pointing melodramatically at the glimpse of viper in the grass. With not a smidge of hesitation dad swung the spade and smashed the snake with all his might. Over and over again. We were quite helpless with laughter as it’s rubber body twisted and writhed and indeed bounced. When entirely satisfied that it was properly dead he took a step forward and picked up it’s stretchy corpse. The head was utterly flattened like a dimpled pancake. We were helpless with laughter. He was thunderous with rage. We were sent indoors to our rooms. It was worth the punishment.
The prompt is beneath my feet … it almost was as I clambered over a rock close to home:
PS: Kaa the snake in Kiplings Jungle book anthropomorphisised so brilliantly by Disney hypnotised Mowgli as he murmured his song ‘Trust in me …. just in me’. My dad was the man I could always trust to protect and defend me from all foes including, crucially, rubber snakes.
It was hot and sunny and we were walking a walk that I had tried in the last gasps winter but the waymarks simply stopped – trees felled or fallen … it happens. The Bean and I, that day in the snow decided to call it a day, even though it meant a near vertical scramble back down what is in fact the edge of an ancient (no seriously, it’s 10th century ancient) quarry to the car. That had been March. Now in July we determined to find the main event – 10th century cottage remains … their owners driven out by the plague it is thought. The plague – up here where the air is clean …it makes you think! In the hot sunshine this beauteous butterfly did aerobatics thence alighting and sunning its stunning wings and then again making a beeline for my exposed skin and delighting in intruding. It hurt by the way. But I didn’t flinch … such an up close and personal experience with so etherial a creature who would be dead by dawn was an unmissable feast … I hope it was good for flutterby too.
PS: Shortly after the picture was taken and for the next 2 hours straight as we walked, the heavens opened in a deluge of biblical proportions and we were quite literally drenched to the skin. I wonder about what butterflies do in the rain. Just a ponder. The cottage ruins were worth it incidentally despite the fact that visibility was practically zero. Just walking in a place that was a community a thousand plus years ago and seemingly wiped out in a whisper of invisible venom made me shiver far more than the saturating rain ever could.
The title is swiped from a 1996 movie starring Robert Redford and Michelle Pfeiffer which I loved and am reminded to seek out again
Given the title Half and Half for this week’s photo challenge I immediately thought of The Bean. She’s half Jack Russell and half Chihuahua – a feisty combination particularly if you are a rat since both breeds are bred fundementally for snapping and trapping rodents. I get asked all the time what she is. I could answer ‘une croix’ which means a cross but the correct expression is la moitié x and la moitié y which means half x and half y. I learned this from the delightful middle child of friends of ours. He must have been 6 at the time and it was a relief not to have a poo-related conversation. This particular evening he fired moitiers at us all and we had to act them out. I thank him for the half fish-half hippo, half dragon-half horse, half raptor-half mouse etc etc because it really really helped my French. With his growly childish slightly lisping voice it has taken a while to tune my lame ear in but he and his beautiful siblings are always forgiving of this apparition of a lady who speaks French like a two year old. Middle child also happens to adore The Bean despite the fact that she once bit his nose. She has no idea how lucky she is. But I know how lucky I am to know, love and be loved by the three of them.
Here comes The Bean, running back from a shady ditch to jump in the car for the obligatory post walk drink, served from her bespoke bowl made from the bottom of a small mineral water bottle, and a treat from her personal supply kept replenished in the car at all times. As you can see from her tongue she was a hot dog … a condition she has had to get used to these last few weeks as we boil and frizzle in France. The picture is a little blurry – life here is a little blurry in the heat but it sort of seems to fit the challenge in that she is half the frame – give me some licence here, please!
PS: Do I wish I had a million dollars (or whatever inflation has done to the million since George Bailey exuberantly made his wish in 1946) … not really – give me the love of beautiful children, my tiny Hot Dog and HB², the place I adore, and I feel as I do – the richest poor girl in the whole wide wonderful world.
Gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins isn’t it? Maybe that’s why we are finding it so hard to find our perfect Maison Principale given that we are beautifully sated and fully occupied with our Square House. Why do we need another house? Well, we have a large family who we want to be able to comfortably accommodate when they visit and, in the end, we want our own land and quite a bit of it surrounding us because we are a teeny bit antisocial and to be able to grow and nurture and live a sort of half-baked gaelic good life. La Maison Carrée was never intended to be our principal house though we will live there for part of each year.
I have spoken before of the idiosyncracies of the French property market and it does take a little getting used to. I watch a programme on Channel 2 which pits two immobiliers against one another to find a home that ticks the boxes set by the couple of the day and what stands out to me is that prices don’t seem to vary from place to place at all. So you can be easily commutable to Paris and the ask is pretty much the same as down here in Vache-ville. I’ll try and put some meat on the bones of my theories about the property market in France along the way but for the moment, because it’s what I do, I will just tell the stories (and there are rather a lot) of the houses we have looked at. One at a time to give time for full digestion – I don’t want to be accused of further gluttony!
So here is the story of the house we very almost bought:
We met the immobilier in a nearby town (remember, I observed they are generally extremely reluctant to give away the precise location of a property for fear of dirty dealing behind their backs). He had been quite rude in our email exchange and we had been given no choice of day or time since he was coming down from Paris. Which in fairness is a more than 5 hour drive on a good day with a following wind. He stepped out of his rhinocerous of a 4×4 and the first thing HB² noted in a barely muted stage whisper was that he was wearing ‘European trousers’. Two Brains has an untreated phobia of such garments. He means corduroys in a variety of orange, pink or yellow hues (occasionally they even bleed into the emeralds and sapphires and I live in dread of an unplanned encounter with any shade of purple). He blames the trousers for a particular type of personality. Not, you will gather, a personality he is attracted to. I noted the trousers and distracted him with the fact that the extraordinarily glossy woman with the man was dressed for some sort of mythical interpretation of outdoor pursuits. She had clearly invested enough to prop up a small country in her attire. The illusion was completed with a Dandy Dinmont Dog. Which meant that The Bean would be trapped in the car because she can be a little, dare I say, fiesty with other four-leggers until they are fully accepted and even then can have random moments of vehement disapproval.
We set off for the first house (another time – you will have to wait for that one) and thence to the house that we had agreed would probably be a bit dark and oppressive. European Trousers slowed to a snail slither as we reached sight of the place and pointed. It was love at first sight. A coup de foudre. We drove down the long drive and parked up. The drive went over, incidentally a bridge crossing a little river, which if you know me at all will tell you that I was pretty much sold, and as we got out of the car, a young man was propped against the front door with that air of nonchelance that the French effect better than any other nation. The building is not an historic monument but it is historic. The cellars (at ground floor level so probably more underneath) are 11th Century and the main building rebuilt in the 14th. The young man who by now had charmingly introduced himself as the grandson of the deceased couple who had restored it to what it is today said that his grandfather had located the site of the original tower. Had he lived he would have carried on restoring I am sure and my inner Rapunzel was already fast-forwarding to rebuilding the tower. In fact in the village (about 5 km away) there is an identical building, but intact. It is a storey and a half higher and has the most curious top to the tower which looks broken until you realise it is deliberate. Who knows why. The grounds were perfect … the stream, an orchard with apples, pears, cherries and quince a fine place for a beau potager and views over the valley several hundred metres below that are just breathtaking. The house has 6 hectares. We worked out that there was about 1 around the house including the swimming pool compound and driveway (the swimming pool incidentally had a pair of robust trees growing out of the cover so a little attention needed before necessary relaxing with an apero before an evening dip) and another 2 or so in the field below but we were intrigued to know what of the woods beyond was included to make up the other 3. European Trousers who thus far had been frankly disconnected with the vital fact that we might be interested buyers deflected the question to young Monsieur Nonchelance who stepped up to the plate and explained that in his boyhood when visiting he was allowed to go as far as the waterfall. This was a romantic notion but not particularly helpful.
We climbed the fantastic stone steps to the imposing castle door. Inside everything seemed perfect. The ‘monumental’ fireplace lived up to its name, the ground floor bedroom was delightful with a well thought out shower room and loo off and the possibility of making a balcony to the full length window (though it would need some monumental supports of its own given the size of the stone pointed to below as the ideal base), the kitchen was tiny (one of my criteria, as a incurable kitchen dweller has always been a kitchen big enough to live in) but as it opened onto the piece de vie which is absolutely humungous taking up, as it does, most of the ground floor, I felt myself compromise. The restauration was superb … very sympathetic with lots of wood to include a built in Auvergne style clock, a lit clos (basically a bed built into the wall and very much of the region and which young man had happily passed many childhood nights when staying with his gramps) and a touch of magic in the form of a set of bookshelves which at the touch of a button will recess and allow the TV to make a grand entrance a la those wonderful moments in world of 1960’s James Bond. It needed to be restored but Two Brains was confident it would be a doddle. I leave these things to him. Upstairs and one huge and another decent sized bedroom, the former used as a workspace possibly by a designer judging by the work-table both with shower rooms. No bath. A bit of a draw back for me as I am a wallower but entirely fixable. The big room would divide comfortably into two good sized bedrooms if necessary as an asside. It was fair to say that it appeared ET was correct when he said it was ready to move straight in.
Outside a liberated Bean was frollicking with a verve that would eclipse any Spring Lamb and clearly loved the place. Her verdict was noted.
We walked around squeezing hands like toddlers. We knew we had found home. A few days later we visited again, sans immobilier and the charming young nonchalance answered our questions as best he could. It was clear that his grandparents had loved the place and we romantically imagined ourselves continuing their work and concluding it – making the house entirely what it once had been. Captivated by the vaulted cellars build by men a thousand years ago we imagined these people smiling down at us. We pointed to a tiny window almost under the eaves that we couldn’t understand – it didn’t correspond to anything inside. Blithely he told us that his gramps ashes were interred up there so they would forever look over the valley. I felt fine about that. No, really I did ….
Back home we discussed and digested and cojitated both together and after his Brainship had flown back to Boston and came up with a price we were both happy with. Questions were asked to ascertain the exact location of the mystery woodland, to stick a stake in the ground that we understood that the chimney needed attention and that we understood the exact condition of the pool mechanisms. Bear in mind that our local friends suck their teeth at asking prices and endlessly fill our heads with tuppence ha’penny deals done on the Q.T. We offered 75% of the ticket price and waited for the knock back. Quite amazingly ET came back to us with the news that our offer had been accepted. That was just before Christmas and I went to bed happy that I would have my forever house by summer.
In January I visited in a blizzard with eldest daughter and her intended – so they could see it at least from the outside. They did not tell me I was mad.
March. After a long period of flatline communication, we were suddenly summoned to a town nearby in 3 days time to sign the Comprimis de Vente (this is basically the moment of exchange of contracts and the comprimis should contain all the clauses we have asked to be included). As it happened we were in Grenoble and so decided to run the document past the wonderfully effete and beautifully bi-lingual Philippe. All our friends are called Philippe by the way. The Brain has excellent French but is humble enough to reach out for a helping hand when needed. I sat reading a magazine lost in the romantic notion of walking Grande Randonee numero 5 – 620 km through the Alps to the Med and Monaco. 3 or 4 weeks they suggest. I could feel the grass, smell the air and ….. a problem. A problem? Two Brains was drained of colour and looked for all the world like a doctor breaking difficult news to a patient’s relative (compounded by the fact that I was sitting in the refreshment area of a modern Science institution). Philippe, diplomatic as ever had balked at the price we were paying and had then drawn attention to the value of the house 7 years ago (pre the 40% drop in overall valuations in France) …. around a third of the original asking price so way, way below what we had offered (remember the speed of the agent’s response). But we are decent people of morals and we had already agreed that given the difficulty of guaging an accurate price we would just go with what we felt was right. A rather lumpy swallow but swallow we would. We loved the house. The electrics have mulitple areas of non-conformity … sort of to be expected even though they look fine enough but the bit that presented an impasse was the Level 2 problem with the LPG Gas. Expliques-moi s’il te plait? Well, the thing is this …. it could cause the house to explode at any minute. Nothing lost (girder-made we are). An email is sent tout de suite to ET and we set off on the 6 hours journey home falling into bed around midnight. Up with the lark, wakened by the barking (and it is genuinely a barking) of the Brain Phone – an alert to a mail. Possibly the rudest mail ever. You WILL be at the notaires office tomorrow morning and tough titty, the problems are yours to solve.
My husband is a mild sort. My mother always said they are the most dangerous. The ensuing conversation with ET was lethal. The man accused him of lying (he clearly thought the real reason was the discovery that the value was much lower than the offer – wrong M’sieur. You were so very wrong. Decency prevails on our side however bitter the pill). And the deal was off. End of. A desparation call from the owner would not sway us. We smelled a consipiracy but now is not the time to air that. And numbed, we were back to square one. HB² quietely commented that he should have trusted his instincts. I mean to say – the man wears European Trousers!
Four months later we are still there. We have opted to broaden our search outside of le Cantal. As much as we adore it here we need to find the right place for us. So the last few months have been about (and mostly remotely – remember Brains in Boston, Charm in Cantal) looking at other places. Our criteria are simple (for the location) snow in winter, sun in summer (if it pleases) and mountains preferably in sight but certainly no more than a half hour drive. If you have ideas, please share them. We are open to ideas.
I have just searched on the net for the house in question and it appears to be under offer … if that is the case, I sincerely hope it doesn’t blow up after money has changed hands
PS: I am inordinately proud of the title of this series because it marks a milestone in my absorption of French … I now find myself punning and playing with words even though the result may still be ‘Comme une Vache Espagnole’ and the words that inspired Part 1 … ‘Your lips are redder than her lips, they’re fuller, they’re redder but they’re not better’ altogether ‘ sorry but I’m gonna have to pass …. thank you The Coasters … you can hear the whole song here – it fits when you understand that the bar we are working to might seem modest (a 2 bedroomed rented appartment) but modest as it is, home is actually pretty much perfect. A high bar indeed.
Actually, Julie Andrews, let’s not. Start at the very beginning that is. The fact is that this particular serial .. Oh! I feel the need to digress – I LOVE a serial! All those wonderful adaptations that the British do so well – from The Forsytes, through The Pallisers, much Jane Austen, many Thomas Hardy’s and no doubt a glut of Dickens whose great works were written as episodes for a variety of journals, only later being published in book form. This explains two things – firstly, why he serialises SO successfully on television and secondly the minute detail in his descriptives which can be the finish of many a secondary school student’s tolerance of his work …. his narrative can feel achingly slow to the modern reader but gathers pace and impact on the screen. Not so for everyone but I have carefully explained to four teenaged daughters and many attendant friends that he should not be dismissed as boring without giving the films and series a whirl first. And it is not just a British phenomena – for instance Alexander Dumas serialised The Three Musketeers (Three Musky Queers as my first husband irreverantly and, quite possibly these days illegally, always referred to them) in 139 episodes in Le Constititutionnel.
Back on piste … I do love a serial and this will be one. But I can’t quite start at the very beginning for the simple reason that the story of finding and buying this place feels as though it should be a novel. Based in the factual, it would be work of fiction with all players and places concealed and touched up with the clay and paint that an Author has the licence to apply at will.
So here it is. We bought a village house that needs renovating in France. Other’s do that too. And they blog – I follow one in particular because she captivates me. You can too, if you want to – just here. So that’s not unique. Where we bought it as English people is unique: Marcolès: newly recognised as ‘Une Petite Cité de Caractère’In fact only three villages in the entire Auvergne region currently hold this accolade and the award was made to the three as recently as May this year. But most important is what it is.
Looking at the picture you would be forgiven for thinking – nice but so what? It’s a nice little town house. In a village. Somewhere in France. What makes it special, if you will, is that it is a Monument Historique de France … gosh, wowy zowy. Boom!! But take a closer look and ask the question beloved of toddlers and indeed, I think, the smartest people throughout their lives …. why?
The thing with this little baby is that it was originally built as the City Watchtower. It is a tour médiéval – this is what it would once have looked like in 1203 when it is first accurately recorded:
As a point of interest, all of these examples are within 50 km of our own village
Sadly the community of Marcolès was less caring then than it is now. Or more accurately, I am sure, had other vital criteria for survival. The tower fell into ruin and the stone was pillaged for other buildings. However. For reasons unrecorded (but we intend to do our darndest to trace and clarify), the village or perhaps just one villager, decided to rebuild it from what was left (and some other stone they found lying around). And the result …la Maison Carrée. For non French speakers, that means ‘The Square House’. Which it is. It is also the only house within the city walls to stand entirely on it’s own. Detached. Reliant on no other. As the locals charmingly put it – you can walk right around it. Completed in 1830 it has been inhabited by a variety of people including a very tall Russian lady who the present Mayor (Marcolèsian born, raised, elected and something of a saviour) remembers vaguely from boyhood. I’m very tall and I love Russia and all things Russian (shoot me – I know its not de rigeur just now) … I rather hope I’m remembered too. As someone who DID something for the Commune. Gave something back, if you will. My HB² of a Spouse feels just the same.
So here we are. We have the house. Without giving anything away we signed the papers for the purchase in March 2014 exactly a year from the start of the purchase … but we didn’t get the keys til Christmas 2014. Stick with me – Part Two is all about le vider. No! NOT the la vida loca! though translated as ‘Living a Crazy Life’ it could be apt in this instance. Vider means ‘to empty’. You also use it when referring to gutting something prior to cooking. Which is about right in this case. It’s a whole story in itself.
À très bientôt
PS: I’ve called this series Coup de Cœur because it is the expression that French Immobiliers – those are Estate Agents to my UK readers, Realtors to those in the US (and apologies to everyone else) – use. Coup de Cœur means a favourite thought that doesn’t cover it, really it is more something that pulls at one’s heart strings. Immobiliers generally use it to imply an irrisistible attraction to a house. That overwhelming almost lusting for a place the moment you lay eyes on it, much less walk inside. A feeling which doesn’t necessarily have either foot in the common sense field …. which in this case, fits perfectly!
It’s holiday season. On Saturday, my US friends and relations celebrated ‘Independence Day’ (July 4th) and in France les grands vacances are upon us. The next two months will see most French people taking time off and we will also celebrate le 14th juillet (‘Bastille Day’ but it is never referred to as such by the French) and le 15th août (Assumption Day) both of which are major holidays. In the village of Marcoles, a teeny weeny but perfectly and beautifully formed medieval gem (and officially ‘une petite cité de caractère’) 15th August is celebrated with a festival of street theatre, music, dance and that particular brand of delightful eccentricity that is unmistakeably French. It is called Lez’Artes dans la Rue (the mascot is a lizard and the title is a clever pun). I absolutely adore it.
We visited for the first time two years ago and were treated, amongst other delights to a troop of medieval musicians with a fantastically barking mad front man, a band fronted by a girl in fishnets and doc martins perched on the roof of a miniature car as it toured the village and oompahpahing deliciously on a souzaphone. And this chap. To say I was not quite ready for him is a probable understatement …. this was in no small measure due to the fact that shortly after this picture was taken he produced a large and fully inflated balloon from the trouser area he is so emphatically framing. His pant region. The balloon was sausage shaped, proudly cocked and bright pink. So there you have it. Standing in front of those wonderful medieval arched doors, he opened his door, one might say …. The crowd went wild. And crowd it was – the village is literally over-run for the occasion.
PS: You will know that the title is from ‘Send in the Clowns’ that wonderful song from Sondheim’s ‘A Little Night Music’ … making my entrance with my usual flair and indecently late, I must recommend that you take a look at the other offerings for the WordPress Weekly Photo Challenge entitled Door – there are some crackers.
And also – tragically, I shan’t be able to attend this year. But I do have a vaguely acceptable reason … my eldest daughter will be marrying her love a week later in England’s West Country and I rather hope her need of me is greater than that of Marcoles on this occasion …
Here is The Bean demonstrating the joy of being outside in uninterrupted open space. The grass tickles her underside, the sun beats down on her topside and she is solitary except for the necessary human behind the camera capturing her off-season delight at a mountain to herself. This was June last year but here it is mostly off-season
In the high range of extinct volcanos that spirals upwards to its climax at the Plomb du Cantal, July and August bring all manner of tourists. Hikers, bikers (those using their own pedalling power and those with petrol horses between their leathered thighs), caravaners, motorists and wanderers. For a couple of months it is difficult to get around without coming face to face with far too many bothersomes for my liking. I’m a bit schitzophrenic about tourism to be honest – I want it and encourage it because I want the region to thrive but I detest it because I have the soul of a hermit.
It’s a family trait – I remember well a holiday in Scotland. We normally went on that unseasonal cusp between Winter and Spring, but for some reason, this particular year, the sharabang north happened in August. We went to the gloriously named and, as it turns out, hugely popular, Trossocks. Each day my father got us out of bed earlier and earlier in the morning and drove us hell-for-leather to avoid the ‘wagons ho!’ of caravans in convoys sometimes hundreds long winding relentlessly towards whatever beauty spot had been picked by one of them and seemingly passed on to all the others by osmosis and which always seemed to coincide with whatever the parents had planned for our day out. From our hotel. In our estate car. With no caravan. We had no caravan. We did not WANT a caravan. The wagoners seemed quite happy to chug along nose to tail. We werent. Selfishly we preferred the wilderness to ourselves and would park the car and stride or, more accurately scramble for those of us on more juvenile, less emphatic legs, penetrating deeper and further into the hills through prickly heather and crunchy bracken and the odd morass of unsolicited bog, each day dragging our picnic bags and groundsheets and rugs to happily enjoy some family isolation. Every day, every SINGLE day at around 1 o’clock my father would bellow ‘bloody hell!’ as he spotted life trudging towards us. We seemed to magnetically attract others. I think the truth was that no-one else shared our desire to just BE in unperturbed nature without the company of strangers who, though Blanche Dubois took such comfort in the kindness of, sometimes, indeed mostly, one could not stand to be near. I haven’t changed.
PS: The poetry lovers amongst you will have spotted that the title is stolen from The Lord Byron ‘I love not man the less, but nature more’ from There is Pleasure in The Pathless Woods which, albeit referencing the seashore and woodlands rather than mountains, pretty much captures my attitude perfectly.
Is that the time? Is that really the time? Or more accurately, is that really the date? June. A week in already and I haven’t posted a single thing since the end of April. Shame. On. Me. No excuses – plenty of reasons. Mostly too boring to share but I shall now bombard you with stuff and I will start as I ended with a photo challenge – this one is called Vivid and this little fellow who I captured near Le Rouget before taking my long absence seems so vivid that you would think I had painted him. Except I can neither paint nor draw except with words so I am not guilty of that crime at least. Enjoy him – he stayed stock still for the camera and The Bean was similarly statue like in her shock at finding him. He is a he, by the way – if he was a she he would not have that beauteous coloured throat. Perhaps Bruce Jenner transgendering from male to female Caitlyn and posing in corsets for Vanity Fair should take note – we girls generally don’t get the most exotic plumage and thinking like a woman should not at all be to do with looking sexual.
