One for the family

Mirages

Well, another beautiful morning unwinds in south west France. The fencing and foliage are again draped with the most fantastic array of dew-soaked webs. They remind me of carelessly hung silver Christmas tinsel. Their beauty is highlighted by the low, piercing autumn rays, as they glisten in the cool morning sun. Above us, tracing a myriad of arrow-like white jet streams on the pale blue sky, the aerial movement of people and goods continues relentlessly. As the jet streams diffuse they form ever more faint cloud patterns overhead.

We live, I guess, under one of the main air traffic lines that run from Africa over southern Spain and then on to northern Europe. I recall travelling from East Midlands airport down to Barcelona and, after crossing the channel, we followed a line that took us over south west France and the Pyrenees. I spent most of that trip sitting in my window seat watching the world pass-by below. In all probability I have been flown over here several years ago and seen the area from 30000 feet.

The installation of the fires still seems some time away, though we've been lucky that the temperature has been mild this past week now. The little oil storage heater hasn't been on for four days, which isn't bad as it heats the bathroom as well as the bedroom.

I telephoned the 'Point P' representative and left him a message in the hope that he can tell me when the parts for our chimneys are due to arrive. Later, a French speaking friend is dropping by. She will phone the electricity company to ensure they got the cheque I sent and will then, hopefully, be told when they intend to install the much needed upgrade to the power supply.

Talking of which, I got caught out yesterday morning by a 'mirage'. As I wheeled down the road with Mac for his early morning leg-stretch, I had to call him to heel and move into the road side to make way for a fast approaching van. As it drew nearer I could see its blue livery was that of ERDF, one of the electricity companies finest! I waved and smiled as he passed by and drove on toward the barn. Only a kilometre or so from home, I started pushing back the way I'd come with great enthusiasm. Given there are only five properties on our two kilometre stretch of single track, I figured there was a real prospect that he had pulled into our drive to replace the supply box.

This is mounted on a telegraph pole hidden behind the caravan and, as I got closer, the suns rays obscured my view of the site. I was hardly more than fifty metres away, and gasping for breath having shoved hard up the final little hill toward our drive, before I realised the van had passed by and driven on into the distance. Well, mirages do happen in hot climes. Let's hope, as I sit here shrouded in cynical self-reproach for my foolish optimism, that it's an omen that for the next coupe of weeks and weathers going to stay cosy and 'desert mirage' warm till the heating's sorted.

BORN WEEDS

WEB WOVEN WEEDS ON A MISTY MORNING

Now you see them

Two deer forage 100m to the rear of the barn

Where fire's is fires

Home from 1.2 kilometres on the 'Born' escarpment. The land is well tilled now and ready for fresh seeds. On the roof can be seen the feint white line of the chimney. One day, smoke will rise....

A chimney waiting for a flue

They came, they saw, they chatted, they left. Christophe, the roofer arrived back today accompanied by Dominique, a saleschap from Point P, a national bricolage firm - sort of B&Q with a human face. After the introductions and the usual friendly, if lengthy discussions, the chaps advised me that the original saleperson from the local Bricolage should have sold us the connections for the fires in the first place. Ah well, if you want a job done learn the language first, then use only main dealers who know what they are doing.

Hopefully one day the fire below with give out warmth.

The Dogs Bollocks

The Dogs Bollocks

It’s a funny turn of phrase, isn’t it? I first heard it from my solicitor several years ago. She referred me to the skills of a ‘dogs bollocks’ Urologist whom she thought could resolve a problem she thought I was developing. I told her there was nothing wrong; she told me to listen for a change and, two weeks later I was under the knife having my renal system sorted out.

She herself was the ‘dogs bollocks’, for she had spotted the early stages of renal failure, which could’ve become a considerably more serious problem. Lucky for me, in a former life she’d been the principal physiotherapist at the old Lodge Moor spinal injuries hospital in Sheffield and knew what she was talking about. I still think fondly of Jane and how well she and her team looked after me through five years of legal wrangling.

I had another taste of the ‘dogs bollocks’ a couple of days ago. My mate, Mac, is 40kg of white Alsatian. He’s a boon to have around for a number of reasons. I sleep better knowing he's there for starters. Anyhow, he and I were out with the ‘Beamer’ electric buggy the other day. Now, for the past few months his behaviour, both on an off the lead, has been exemplarary. But, being an Alsatian he always has that ‘edge’ where, if someone or something threatens him, they’re ‘mince’. For that reason I walk him using a ‘Halti’. It fits round his head and allows easier control of his power if he ‘kicks-off’. Its only weakness is that the pressure on the bridge of his nose does irritate him. For this reason I’d like to be able to walk him without it.

Yes, you know what’s coming.

Saturday I go out with friends for lunch. The restaurant is a small affair and we can all sit outdoors in the autumn sunshine ‘chewing the fat’ - and chewing our food. The place is cute and, to amuse the guests there’s even a scraggy looking hen scratching about around under the tables. It has no neck feathers and I’m reliably told that it’s a ‘Bavarian Bald Neck’. Trust the French to give a German chicken an insulting name!

The meal is good, solid French food and plenty of it. Well worth the twelve Euros price tag. The only fault I could find was that the soup (potato and white bean) had no seasoning and very little ‘stock’ flavour. After the second mouthful I found myself looking longingly at the hen as it paraded around whilst fantasising about Knorr chicken stock cubes dissolving in hot water…

After three hours I set off back to the barn, well satisfied with my repast. Arriving back home in warm sunshine, I decide to throw my ass up on to the buggy seat and take Mac for a walk around the local single-track roads. I look at the Halti, which sits in the handle bar carry pouch and think ‘no, he’s been fine, I’ll clip his lead onto the collar and give him a change of adornment - and rest his nose’.

After ten or so minutes we pass some people we know, over to my right and in a field of theirs. I call across to say ‘hello’ and as I do so their dog wanders unseen round to the other side of me. Mac does his, ‘piss off this is my territory’ dog thing and launches himself, (all forty kilograms!) at the dog. Now, I’m looking one way, arm relaxed, lead in hand, when his inertia strikes. In half a second my face is pulled over the front of the buggy and my left arm achieves cartoon like lengths as Mac, slavering, charges the intruder. I feel no immediate discomfort, save for the bump my chin got as it 'skelped' off the hard plastic buggy cover. As I shouted he came back under control very quickly, with no real harm done. Or so I thought.

I head off, though further along the road I stop and the Halti resumes control. Lesson learned, I think. Though how painfully I’m just about to find out.

Come bedtime Saturday my shoulder’s a little uncomfortable though, earlier incident forgotten, I’ve no idea why. Dohhhh!!! I transfer onto the bed and try to lie flat – Owwww!!! My shoulder and neck muscles go into spasm. The pain is indeed ‘interesting’. After a sleepless night, I get up very gingerly and swallow two aspirin. The discomfort doesn’t become real pain unless I put pressure directly onto the shoulder by lying flat, or leaning too far forward. Luckily, I can still transfer unaided, though not without some discomfort.

As I sit stiff-necked and scribbling this morning, I now know what the ‘dogs bollocks’ really means. You see when Mac was a pup he was very aggressive. The vet advised – yes - removing the dog’s bollocks. Reluctantly we accepted that this probably was a necessity, if only to prevent him eating anything that moved into range. Now, I reckon if he still had bollocks I’d be scribbling this from a French Hospital bed, for he’d have easily pulled me, and the buggy over - whether I shouted ‘Mac!’ or not.