Debrah and I returned to London last Tuesday and had a manic few days there - both of us had a ton of work and meetings to get through as well as a load of personal administration to organise - it was all a bit hectic.
The reason was that some time ago we had booked a two week holiday in Turkey starting on Saturday 29th. We booked it thinking that work plans would be very different but as we all know, everything changes beyond our control and, as it turns out, we probably couldn't have booked two worse weeks to go away. Although, from a personal relationship point of view it is definitely the best timing - we could both do with a change of pace and scenery.
So it is that I am sat at a hotel bar in Turkey looking out at the most awe-inspiring view over the bay, having just been helped by the hotel staff to log on to their wirefree network.
For the next two weeks, therefore, this blog will be dedicated to Turkey, not London or the Languedoc - when I can get online that is.
Sunday, 30 September 2007
Monday, 24 September 2007
On the map/In the book
We have always known that our property has a bit of history and that it is one of the oldest of the 'hotel particuliers', or grand townhouses, in Carcassonne. We know this because when we bought the property, the age of the building, 1735, was clearly shown in the deeds. We know this because one of my neighbours gave me a photocopied page describing the house, it's history, the owners and some of the magnificent features, not all of which, such as the fountain and the garden, are still in existence. We know this because of the magnificent plasterwork, ornate fireplaces, carved double wooden doors, parquet flooring and crumbling lime mortar walls!
We also know this because the property appears on the town maps displayed at the top of the rue de Verdun and by the tourist office kiosk by the Canal du Midi. The maps are tourist guides showing the layout of the Bastide and highlighting some of the most important or architecturally interesting buildings and our property is clearly marked on rue Victor Hugo and listed in the index as Hotel Roques (XVIII siecle). The house is named, as per the usual French custom, after M. Roques, a wealthy textile merchant, who paid for it's construction in the eighteenth century.
A new guide book went on sale today called 'La Bastide de Carcassonne en poche'. It is a pocket guide to the most interesting buildings in the bastide town and a few just beyond it's borders. It is crammed full of colour photos from behind their big front doors and shuttered windows and makes me realise what a treasure trove there is out of sight of the public and, in fact, how much of it has been neglected by the town's authorities and inhabitants.
Page 37 of the guide is devoted to Hotel Roques, showing photographs of the front of the building from the street, the archway, the stone carvings above the windows, the front door in the courtyard and the magnificent stone staircase with it's wrought iron balustrade and confirming what we knew of the history of the building but sadly not really adding much more to our knowledge, other than the fact that the big double wooden front doors are Louis XV doors. I have to remind myself now and again that the property was built when the French still had royalty and before the Revolution put paid to them.
So, not only are we on the map, we are also in the book as well. How very exciting.
We also know this because the property appears on the town maps displayed at the top of the rue de Verdun and by the tourist office kiosk by the Canal du Midi. The maps are tourist guides showing the layout of the Bastide and highlighting some of the most important or architecturally interesting buildings and our property is clearly marked on rue Victor Hugo and listed in the index as Hotel Roques (XVIII siecle). The house is named, as per the usual French custom, after M. Roques, a wealthy textile merchant, who paid for it's construction in the eighteenth century.
A new guide book went on sale today called 'La Bastide de Carcassonne en poche'. It is a pocket guide to the most interesting buildings in the bastide town and a few just beyond it's borders. It is crammed full of colour photos from behind their big front doors and shuttered windows and makes me realise what a treasure trove there is out of sight of the public and, in fact, how much of it has been neglected by the town's authorities and inhabitants.
Page 37 of the guide is devoted to Hotel Roques, showing photographs of the front of the building from the street, the archway, the stone carvings above the windows, the front door in the courtyard and the magnificent stone staircase with it's wrought iron balustrade and confirming what we knew of the history of the building but sadly not really adding much more to our knowledge, other than the fact that the big double wooden front doors are Louis XV doors. I have to remind myself now and again that the property was built when the French still had royalty and before the Revolution put paid to them.
So, not only are we on the map, we are also in the book as well. How very exciting.
Sunday, 23 September 2007
Adieu Marcel
It is with great sadness that I read today on the BBC news website of the death of Marcel Marceau, the incomparable French mime artist.
Sad, because he was one of a kind.
Sad, because he was the inspiration for many very funny moments for Debrah and I.
I guess you had to be there really and I guess it is only funny for us, but when Debrah flippantly answered 'Marcel Marceau' to the question 'Who is the President of France?' and I then proceeded to act out the mime of a voiceless President in different situations, an unbreakable link was established for us between our life here in France, French politics and silent comedy.
I am sure no-one else will understand the poignancy of this, but with hand on heart and pained look on my face, I can honestly say we will miss you Marcel.
Au revoir
Sad, because he was one of a kind.
Sad, because he was the inspiration for many very funny moments for Debrah and I.
I guess you had to be there really and I guess it is only funny for us, but when Debrah flippantly answered 'Marcel Marceau' to the question 'Who is the President of France?' and I then proceeded to act out the mime of a voiceless President in different situations, an unbreakable link was established for us between our life here in France, French politics and silent comedy.
I am sure no-one else will understand the poignancy of this, but with hand on heart and pained look on my face, I can honestly say we will miss you Marcel.
Au revoir
Le Parc
I collected Debrah from the airport on Friday at twelve thirty and we went straight to the restaurant for lunch. When I had phoned the day before to make a reservation for one-thirty, or 'treize et demi' (thirteen and a half - French custom dictates the use of the twenty four clock to communicate correctly) I was told in no uncertain terms that I musn't be any later than that. Right. It's almost as if they were doing me a favour by opening and serving food rather than me providing them with a living by turning up to eat and pay for our lunch. French arrogance never ceases to amaze me but I love it nonetheless.
As a result, we hot-footed it around Carcassonne to 'Le Parc', a newly decorated Michelin-starred restaurant, situated in a quiet road, intrigingly called 'chemin des Anglais' right underneath the Cite. This restaurant was opened a couple of years ago and Frank Putelat, the chef has, apparently, spent a fortune on the build and design, as well as going all out to get that revered Michelin star.
We were there by one o'clock and the car park was absolutely stuffed - clearly we were late. Indeed the restaurant was packed to the point where we felt a bit self-conscious walking to our table when everyone else was already past the aperiftif stage and onto first or even second courses.
The place was clearly expensively, though not necessarily tastefully, designed. Everything seemed to say that they were trying just a little bit too hard to impress - the monogrammed plates and butter pats, the carved stone cutlery holders with precise dents for fork. knife and spoon, the red tinted water glasses, the piped birdsong in the toilets, the crazy Philippe Starck type designer coffee cups with bent Uri Geller spoons hanging off them - it was all a bit extreme.
.
Which would have been fine if the food had lived up to the hype. I had been told that the fixed price lunch menu was superb and excellent value for money. Sadly, the reality didn't live up to the billing - the canapes and the petit fours were excellent but the three courses in between were a bit of a disappointment, which was a real shame. When we can afford it, we would love to come back and try the rest of the menu including the bizarrely named 'Action .... Reaction' menu where the chef chooses your food and you pay a very large amount of money for the privilege!
As it was, the food and everything else didn't really matter because all we were interested in was seeing each other. If the coffee cups really had been able to hover, as I imagined they should, then maybe this blog would have had a different emphasis, but then again, maybe not.
As a result, we hot-footed it around Carcassonne to 'Le Parc', a newly decorated Michelin-starred restaurant, situated in a quiet road, intrigingly called 'chemin des Anglais' right underneath the Cite. This restaurant was opened a couple of years ago and Frank Putelat, the chef has, apparently, spent a fortune on the build and design, as well as going all out to get that revered Michelin star.
We were there by one o'clock and the car park was absolutely stuffed - clearly we were late. Indeed the restaurant was packed to the point where we felt a bit self-conscious walking to our table when everyone else was already past the aperiftif stage and onto first or even second courses.
The place was clearly expensively, though not necessarily tastefully, designed. Everything seemed to say that they were trying just a little bit too hard to impress - the monogrammed plates and butter pats, the carved stone cutlery holders with precise dents for fork. knife and spoon, the red tinted water glasses, the piped birdsong in the toilets, the crazy Philippe Starck type designer coffee cups with bent Uri Geller spoons hanging off them - it was all a bit extreme.
.
Which would have been fine if the food had lived up to the hype. I had been told that the fixed price lunch menu was superb and excellent value for money. Sadly, the reality didn't live up to the billing - the canapes and the petit fours were excellent but the three courses in between were a bit of a disappointment, which was a real shame. When we can afford it, we would love to come back and try the rest of the menu including the bizarrely named 'Action .... Reaction' menu where the chef chooses your food and you pay a very large amount of money for the privilege!
As it was, the food and everything else didn't really matter because all we were interested in was seeing each other. If the coffee cups really had been able to hover, as I imagined they should, then maybe this blog would have had a different emphasis, but then again, maybe not.
Friday, 21 September 2007
Carpe Diem
Debrah has decided to come out for the weekend and arrives tomorrow, or is that later today, not being sure when this blog will hit the world wide airwaves. Whatever, I can't wait for her to arrive at 'L'aeroport de le Pays Cathars' or Carcassonne as it is more usually referred to, at lunchtime.
We are going straight from the airport to 'Le Parc' - a Michelin starred restaurant opened a couple of years ago by the head chef from the restaurant at 'La Hotel de la Cite' who decided to branch out on his own. His old restaurant still has a Michelin star and now his new one does as well. We have thought about going there a few times but never really got round to it - it looked a bit austere - but it has been recommended and we are going to check it out for ourselves, which is, of course, the only way to gauge the quality of anything.
The recommendation came from Lesa, my estate agent friend (Aussie background, knows everyone and more, husband in the CRS, who would shoot you without hesitation if he thought you had touched his wife!).
Even allowing for that slightly scary scenario, Lesa and her new business partner, Yannick, came round to look at the apartments this week and to discuss the whole French property thing. Naturally, in stereotypical fashion, Yannick was very reserved and shoulder shrugging and Lesa was very enthusiastic and over the top in true Aussie style - she used the word 'gorgeous' more often than my daughter, Isabel, which is saying something. Lesa seems to know everyone in town and so could be a useful contact and she liked what we are doing here with the apartments and with our plans for the place, which is great. We need to work out how we can use her particular skills and knowledge to best effect for us. I get the impression that she likes to take her 'cut' on any deal, which is no problem at all, if it is merited. I'm sure we will work something out.
Whilst 'the genius' is away progress is slow on the renovation but I have managed to remove a ton of rubbish and rubble from the studio and have been steadily making progress with the sanding of the walls as my very aching shoulders will testify.
And, last night, the Thursday evening music club (not an official title) was meeting at a bar called Carpe Diem. It's a nice little place, with an excellent selection of wines by the glass and bottle (and, whisper it, not just French wines) as well as a tasty sounding tapas menu which I must try out sometime.
The music group is in fact the same misfits as the saturday lunch crew, just with guitars in hand, except for a couple of notable exceptions. Rob, a Dutchman who trades in old books and now runs his own shop in Montolieu, knows how to play and really can sing - it was good to see him again and I must visit him in his shop sometime as I, once again, promised to do. There were also two ladies, a mother and daughter, who sang the most beautiful harmonies together - very haunting, very moving. I couldn't work out their background or define the music style - it had something of a Portuguese fado about it, but could also have been North African or gypsy (I was later told that they were from Georgia in Eastern Europe) - but, whatever, everyone in the bar sat silently, mesmerised by their beautiful voices. I can still hear them now and I'd pay to listen to them again.
We are going straight from the airport to 'Le Parc' - a Michelin starred restaurant opened a couple of years ago by the head chef from the restaurant at 'La Hotel de la Cite' who decided to branch out on his own. His old restaurant still has a Michelin star and now his new one does as well. We have thought about going there a few times but never really got round to it - it looked a bit austere - but it has been recommended and we are going to check it out for ourselves, which is, of course, the only way to gauge the quality of anything.
The recommendation came from Lesa, my estate agent friend (Aussie background, knows everyone and more, husband in the CRS, who would shoot you without hesitation if he thought you had touched his wife!).
Even allowing for that slightly scary scenario, Lesa and her new business partner, Yannick, came round to look at the apartments this week and to discuss the whole French property thing. Naturally, in stereotypical fashion, Yannick was very reserved and shoulder shrugging and Lesa was very enthusiastic and over the top in true Aussie style - she used the word 'gorgeous' more often than my daughter, Isabel, which is saying something. Lesa seems to know everyone in town and so could be a useful contact and she liked what we are doing here with the apartments and with our plans for the place, which is great. We need to work out how we can use her particular skills and knowledge to best effect for us. I get the impression that she likes to take her 'cut' on any deal, which is no problem at all, if it is merited. I'm sure we will work something out.
Whilst 'the genius' is away progress is slow on the renovation but I have managed to remove a ton of rubbish and rubble from the studio and have been steadily making progress with the sanding of the walls as my very aching shoulders will testify.
And, last night, the Thursday evening music club (not an official title) was meeting at a bar called Carpe Diem. It's a nice little place, with an excellent selection of wines by the glass and bottle (and, whisper it, not just French wines) as well as a tasty sounding tapas menu which I must try out sometime.
The music group is in fact the same misfits as the saturday lunch crew, just with guitars in hand, except for a couple of notable exceptions. Rob, a Dutchman who trades in old books and now runs his own shop in Montolieu, knows how to play and really can sing - it was good to see him again and I must visit him in his shop sometime as I, once again, promised to do. There were also two ladies, a mother and daughter, who sang the most beautiful harmonies together - very haunting, very moving. I couldn't work out their background or define the music style - it had something of a Portuguese fado about it, but could also have been North African or gypsy (I was later told that they were from Georgia in Eastern Europe) - but, whatever, everyone in the bar sat silently, mesmerised by their beautiful voices. I can still hear them now and I'd pay to listen to them again.
Tuesday, 18 September 2007
Full Steam Ahead
After my jolly to the rugby in Montpellier on Sunday it was time to get back down to work on both my London and Carcassonne projects, both of which are reaching a critical stage of development and both of which could probably demand all my time - so I need to put some hours in this week to satisfy their demands.
I have found that I am more productive on London work first thing in the morning - up at 7.00am with the first bell of the day, a pot of coffee, still relatively quiet outside and at this time of year still darkish. Of course, in the UK it is only 6.00am so anyone receiving an early email from me is always well impressed.
That isn't the reason for working this way around though. After doing the physical side of things on the renovation I am always aching - seeing as I am getting on a bit these days and there is a lot of mileage behind me - and I find it more difficult when I am physically tired to think straight and do financial planning. I am hoping I am not alone in this.
Of course, up early and thinking clearly is only possible if I am sensible the night before. So, a degree of discipline is required this week, something I haven't been renowned for in the past, but I am getting better.
As I sit here now at the kitchen table, waiting for the water to come to the boil for the spaghetti for my dinner, I am pretty happy with my two days effort on both fronts - how smug does that sound? It shouldn't sound smug at all because I have only made but a dent in the work that still needs to be done to bring both these projects to fruition.
Supper nearly ready so time to go. I think I might go to the pub and watch the rugby later .......
I have found that I am more productive on London work first thing in the morning - up at 7.00am with the first bell of the day, a pot of coffee, still relatively quiet outside and at this time of year still darkish. Of course, in the UK it is only 6.00am so anyone receiving an early email from me is always well impressed.
That isn't the reason for working this way around though. After doing the physical side of things on the renovation I am always aching - seeing as I am getting on a bit these days and there is a lot of mileage behind me - and I find it more difficult when I am physically tired to think straight and do financial planning. I am hoping I am not alone in this.
Of course, up early and thinking clearly is only possible if I am sensible the night before. So, a degree of discipline is required this week, something I haven't been renowned for in the past, but I am getting better.
As I sit here now at the kitchen table, waiting for the water to come to the boil for the spaghetti for my dinner, I am pretty happy with my two days effort on both fronts - how smug does that sound? It shouldn't sound smug at all because I have only made but a dent in the work that still needs to be done to bring both these projects to fruition.
Supper nearly ready so time to go. I think I might go to the pub and watch the rugby later .......
Sunday, 16 September 2007
At the Rugby
Six months ago I bought some tickets for two Rugby World Cup matches. There was a plan at the time but a lot can happen in six months. By the time we were booking a two week trip to Turkey leaving on 29th September I had forgotten all about the three tickets for South Africa v USA on the 30th - forgetful old fool that I am. Furthermore, 'the genius' is back in SA watching it on the telly when he should have been watching his team live here. Oh well, best laid plans and all that.
That still left two tickets for Samoa v Tonga - a South Sea Island local derby with no love lost, I am told. My very good friend, Kieron, said he would love to come over if he could fit it in with his work schedule, his wife's work schedule, care for his lovely kids and care for his bank balance. In the end money and work prevented him coming - I think the family were sorted - but he's still 'gutted' about it and sent me an email this evening to ask how it was.
Well it was an excellent day out in Montpellier and I'm very glad I was able to see at least one of the matches at this World Cup live and in the flesh. In the end it was Simon, whom I met whilst sat on an aeroplane that wasn't going anywhere very quickly about a week or so ago, who not only took up my spare ticket today but has also taken the other three for two weeks time off my hands as well.
As the organisers were clearly trying to discourage people driving to the matches, I decided to put my faith in the highly respected French railways. I went online yesterday and planned my route, times, trains and finally seat numbers - paid for them and then collected them at the station this morning from the automatic machines. The train arrived at the appointed time to the minute, my seat was as it should be (i.e. unoccupied by someone else) and it pulled into Montpellier station at 12.59 exactly, as advertised. In between I was treated to fabulous views of the Minervois, the Etang de Thau, the yachts on the Mediterranean and the towns of Narbonne, Beziers and Sete.
Simon had joined the train at Beziers and so, once in Montpellier, we set off to find a good pre-match lunch and catch up on what had been going on in the week since we had spent several wasted hours at Stansted airport. Simon knew a really good restaurant he had been to before, that specialised in the local fish and seafood, and would be just perfect. It would have been perfect but, being France, it was closed, naturally - I ask you, there is a Rugby World Cup match taking place in the city and about twenty thousand or so visitors with a load of cash to dispose of are milling around looking for somewhere to have a good lunch, so why would you possibly open up, unless you were worried about the prospect of making a profit and paying some tax or maybe they were put off by having to serve more than four tables. Incroyable! - as they say in these parts. It continues to amaze me how the French have an economy at all.
In fact, there were plenty of forward-looking entrepreneurial enterprises who were begrudgingly (it was now 1.20 or so) admitting 'late' diners for lunch. We just sat down at a table - yes, without announcing ourselves first - dreadfully rude, I know. Clearly our natural charm and good looks (not to mention Simon's excellent French) must have counted for something because we were served (eventually) a very decent charcuterie platter and some very drinkable wine which satisfied us perfectly.
The stadium is on the edge of the city and so we had to hop onto Montpellier's much lauded tram system for the 20 minute journey round the houses, university faculties and halls of residence out to the 'stade'. Once there, what struck me was virtually a complete absence of commercial exploitation of the fans - no program sellers, no burgers and hot dogs and chips, no ice cream stalls, no scarves and hats and badges, no police horses - it's not a proper match without a police horse. At least somebody checked my ticket and someone else did a very scant security check - as in they didn't look in my bag and they patted my pockets to which I replied 'camera' and 'phone' in turn and waved me through. They did take the plastic top off Simon's plastic bottle of water though, just to be on the safe side.
Mind you, an international rugby crowd is a different kettle of fish to an English Premiership football match - there is no swearing, spitting, racism, sexism or general air of menace - which is nice. Instead, there were people of all the rugby nations sat side by side in the glorious sunshine. There was a brass band at either end of the stadium playing bull-fighting trumpet calls to which the crowd responded 'Ole' and a succession of traditional local tunes, such as 'Roll out the Barrel !!'. There were people employed to start Mexican waves whenever it went a bit quiet.
And the game? Two Hakas for the price of one ticket was a good start. It took time to get going and looked like Samoa were on top but Tonga were fired up for the second half and scored the only try and hung on for a memorable win with two men short for the last ten minutes after a high tackle and a good old elbow to the head produced a red card for the No 6 and a professional foul produced a sin-bin for another. For Tonga the guy with the massive Afro hair stood out for obvious reasons as well as his rugby and for Samoa the No 11 is someone I would never ever like to see running at me with intent. There were a number of massive hits in the second half, mostly from Tonga, that bought a collective 'Ooohhh' from the crowd. From the body language at the end of the game I'd say the Tongans were 'over the moon' and the Samoans were 'sick as a parrot'.
Actually, I'm a bit sad I'm not going to any other games now. You can watch all the sport in the world on the TV, with different camera angles and commentary and stats but you can't beat being there and seeing it and feeling it - unless you are watching England that is.
Saturday, 15 September 2007
Crazy
Everything is developing very rapidly on both fronts of my mildly complicated lifestyle. On the UK work front, the first trial models are being manufactured and in France we are writing copy to promote the apartments on our own website and others that want to list us.
My two full days in London were spent preparing new forecasts and business plans for presentations to the Board and, very soon, the bank. Meanwhile, the product is being manufactured, not without some issues relating to material supply and use, but at least we are getting close to having something to sell.
The unsatisfactory bit of my London visit was only seeing Debrah briefly on Tuesday and then for a few hours on Thursday evening. I won't see her again now for 10 days after returning to France yesterday. When we started this we brushed off these times apart but we are now finding them increasingly difficult - we must be in love or something.
One the greatest feelings on returning to the apartment in France, apart from the sense of relief when the car starts at the airport, is opening up the shutters and letting the beautifully clear Languedoc light flood into and around each room in turn, giving a new life to the previously shut away dark and, even after only four days, dusty space, giving warmth to the rich parquet flooring and height and depth to the always impressive ceiling and door height. As I open each set of shutters and turn to look at the newly lit space behind me I have to pinch myself that it is mine - I love this place and don't think I could ever get tired of arriving here.
All of which spurs me on anew to sorting out the remaining unfinished work. It is a bit frustrating that 'the genius' has had to go back to South Africa. Not from a sporting point of view, of course, because he would now be revelling in last night's rugby, but purely from the sense that I want to get this renovation finished finally and as soon as possible.
Lo and behold, I met a plasterer today. Oh, we so could have done with a really good plasterer about three months ago - it would have saved a mass of heartache whilst we were finishing off in the end apartment - but we could still use someone to do the same job in the studio and office spaces. There was a time in the past when I used to go to a bar to actually watch whichever sporting event that attracted me there in the first place - these days I spend half the time talking to new people that I meet and pumping them for information about what they do with a view to seeing if we have anything in common and can help each other out. I know, it's called networking and I should have been doing it for years in my old life in advertising, but, you know what, it always felt like a drag talking to boring dull people then, whilst now, because it will affect my own business, it feels totally natural and a real pleasure.
Anyway, I met these three Scots over here for a week with their wives to have a holiday and watch some rugby because it was cheaper to travel round the Languedoc for a week including airfares and tickets to a game in Toulouse than to get tickets for a match in Edinburgh - mad. I met the Scots after bumping into Lesa (only an Aussie would have an 'e' instead of an 'i') who introduced me to some Kiwis working at Chateau Pennautier, a local Cabardes vineyard, who dragged me (honestly) to a different bar where I met another Aussie and a Welshman, both ex-rugby players, who persuaded all of us, including Lesa's husband who served 15 years in the French army and is now in the CRS and scarily kept talking about shooting people, to go to the Irish bar to watch the Wales v Australia match.
The Welshman said to the Scottish boys "Scottish are you?" - which seeing as they were all wearing Scotland rugby shirts was pretty bloody obvious. "Ay, are you Welsh?", they replied to the Welshman in a Wales rugby shirt. I thought it was going to a long afternoon.
Then one of the Scots boys says, "my wife is Welsh, from Maesteg".
"I used to captain Maesteg" says the Welshman "What's her name?
The upshot of it all was that her name was Davies - what a shock - and they were related. Rhys, the Welshman, turned to me and said "I walk into an Irish bar in France with an Englishman, an Australian and a New Zealander and I meet a Scotsman who's married to my wife's niece - it's crazy this place"
Yes, it definitely is - as mad as a box of frogs - if my hosts don't mind me saying so.
My two full days in London were spent preparing new forecasts and business plans for presentations to the Board and, very soon, the bank. Meanwhile, the product is being manufactured, not without some issues relating to material supply and use, but at least we are getting close to having something to sell.
The unsatisfactory bit of my London visit was only seeing Debrah briefly on Tuesday and then for a few hours on Thursday evening. I won't see her again now for 10 days after returning to France yesterday. When we started this we brushed off these times apart but we are now finding them increasingly difficult - we must be in love or something.
One the greatest feelings on returning to the apartment in France, apart from the sense of relief when the car starts at the airport, is opening up the shutters and letting the beautifully clear Languedoc light flood into and around each room in turn, giving a new life to the previously shut away dark and, even after only four days, dusty space, giving warmth to the rich parquet flooring and height and depth to the always impressive ceiling and door height. As I open each set of shutters and turn to look at the newly lit space behind me I have to pinch myself that it is mine - I love this place and don't think I could ever get tired of arriving here.
All of which spurs me on anew to sorting out the remaining unfinished work. It is a bit frustrating that 'the genius' has had to go back to South Africa. Not from a sporting point of view, of course, because he would now be revelling in last night's rugby, but purely from the sense that I want to get this renovation finished finally and as soon as possible.
Lo and behold, I met a plasterer today. Oh, we so could have done with a really good plasterer about three months ago - it would have saved a mass of heartache whilst we were finishing off in the end apartment - but we could still use someone to do the same job in the studio and office spaces. There was a time in the past when I used to go to a bar to actually watch whichever sporting event that attracted me there in the first place - these days I spend half the time talking to new people that I meet and pumping them for information about what they do with a view to seeing if we have anything in common and can help each other out. I know, it's called networking and I should have been doing it for years in my old life in advertising, but, you know what, it always felt like a drag talking to boring dull people then, whilst now, because it will affect my own business, it feels totally natural and a real pleasure.
Anyway, I met these three Scots over here for a week with their wives to have a holiday and watch some rugby because it was cheaper to travel round the Languedoc for a week including airfares and tickets to a game in Toulouse than to get tickets for a match in Edinburgh - mad. I met the Scots after bumping into Lesa (only an Aussie would have an 'e' instead of an 'i') who introduced me to some Kiwis working at Chateau Pennautier, a local Cabardes vineyard, who dragged me (honestly) to a different bar where I met another Aussie and a Welshman, both ex-rugby players, who persuaded all of us, including Lesa's husband who served 15 years in the French army and is now in the CRS and scarily kept talking about shooting people, to go to the Irish bar to watch the Wales v Australia match.
The Welshman said to the Scottish boys "Scottish are you?" - which seeing as they were all wearing Scotland rugby shirts was pretty bloody obvious. "Ay, are you Welsh?", they replied to the Welshman in a Wales rugby shirt. I thought it was going to a long afternoon.
Then one of the Scots boys says, "my wife is Welsh, from Maesteg".
"I used to captain Maesteg" says the Welshman "What's her name?
The upshot of it all was that her name was Davies - what a shock - and they were related. Rhys, the Welshman, turned to me and said "I walk into an Irish bar in France with an Englishman, an Australian and a New Zealander and I meet a Scotsman who's married to my wife's niece - it's crazy this place"
Yes, it definitely is - as mad as a box of frogs - if my hosts don't mind me saying so.
Tuesday, 11 September 2007
Out of Synch
There is no great insight to today's blog - there is nothing deeply profound.
I flew back from Carcassonne to London at lunchtime today to do a couple of days work for my London job.
I went straight into Central London to meet Debrah at her office. We went out for half an hour, in the glorious sunshine, and sat by the Thames on the South Bank eating an ice-cream. Then I drove the car home to North London and she got in a cab to Heathrow to catch a flight to Turkey to do a presentation to a bank.
She comes back on Thursday and I go back to France on Friday morning.
That is absolutely the most rubbish bit of scheduling ever.
As two people who love each other very much and want to spend every waking hour together - it's an absolute nightmare. I'm not sure how this came about but it must never happen again.
Safe journey - I miss you, my darling.
I flew back from Carcassonne to London at lunchtime today to do a couple of days work for my London job.
I went straight into Central London to meet Debrah at her office. We went out for half an hour, in the glorious sunshine, and sat by the Thames on the South Bank eating an ice-cream. Then I drove the car home to North London and she got in a cab to Heathrow to catch a flight to Turkey to do a presentation to a bank.
She comes back on Thursday and I go back to France on Friday morning.
That is absolutely the most rubbish bit of scheduling ever.
As two people who love each other very much and want to spend every waking hour together - it's an absolute nightmare. I'm not sure how this came about but it must never happen again.
Safe journey - I miss you, my darling.
Sunday, 9 September 2007
La Psychologie Francaise
The more that I go back and forth between London and Carcassonne, the more I notice the differences in attitude between the two locations. Some are just down to the difference between big and small town (with a bit of Frenchness thrown in) and some are the difference between the French and the English. Both were demonstrated vividly to me on Friday evening after the ordeal of my delayed arrival in France.
The parking rules in London are draconian - unattended for five minutes in the wrong place and you have a ticket costing £40, ten minutes and you are clamped. My good friend Patrick was telling me last night that it's just the same in Chicago, where he lives most of the time, and where he has just been forced to pay for a permit to park outside his home. All of which make the parking rules here in Carcassonne an absolute joy. Where you do have to pay, it starts at 9.00am and ends at 6.00pm and the two hours of lunch between 12.00 and 2.00 are free, of course. If you buy a 'pay and display' ticket at 11.00am for two hours it will show 3.00pm as your limit, automatically taking into account the two hours of free lunch - how damn civilised is that? I have also been told that if you have paid to park and have a ticket displayed but have run over your time a bit, there is no way you will be given a ticket - I haven't tested this out but, given what follows it's not beyond the realm of truth.
So, after my late arrival on Friday, Chris and I popped down to the square for an early evening 'pression' and a catch-up on work and life. The road around the Place Carnot is quite narrow and parking spaces are few. Also, all drivers know that it is far easier to park by reversing into a space than trying to go in front first.
I didn't see the car coming as I had my back to the traffic flow but I saw it come past me and pull in nose first to the small space outside the pharmacy next to Bar Felix. No chance I thought, as I watched out of the corner of my eye whilst earnestly talking with Chris. Indeed, the driver made no attempt to get into the space and just left the car at 45 degrees to the kerb with it's tail sticking out into the road - a bit of film star parking of the highest grade. Just then I noticed two members of our local law enforcement agency standing opposite, watching every move, resplendent in their navy trousers, polo shirts with 'Police Municipale' emblazoned across the back, baseball caps and with handcuffs and guns on their belts. One of them started across the street just as the driver was getting out of the car. "Ooops", I said to myself and thought "You are in for a bit of a talking to'.
Think again - this is France. The 'PM' walked around the front of the car as the driver shut the door - he removed his cap and kissed the driver on both cheeks, exchanging a warm "Bon Soir" and "Ca Va". She then went into the pharmacy and he resumed his patrol with his colleague and the car remained precariously parked and causing an obstruction. If that doesn't sum up France, I don't know what does?
Later that evening I watched the opening game of the Rugby World Cup, being staged here in France for the first time. I have never known this nation to be so 'up for it' and behind their national team (I wasn't here for the football world cup in 1998 so can't compare). I walked into the bar just before kick-off and the tension was electric. When the French national anthem was played there were people standing up and singing along, which is always a spine-tingling experience when the anthem is as good as 'La Marseillaise', but I have never known it happen before. Mini rugby balls abounded and the 'tricolore' face paint was much in evidence. Even the poor, sole Argentinian fan had to endure the French colours being daubed on his face just after kick-off, but then again, he had the last laugh.
In case you don't know, it didn't quite go to plan and the French lost. Over the course of the two hours the cries of "Allez" became less vocal and by the end of the game the bar was subdued. At the final whistle the bar emptied. The so-called 'sages' were telling us that they knew this was going to happen and a nation uttered "dommage" (shame) or "cauchemar" (nightmare) depending on their point of view. There could not have been a bigger sense of anti-climax. Elsewhere in the world I know the fans would have had another couple or more beers and sang long into the night - in England, or Ireland, Wales, Scotland, South Africa, Australia or New Zealand - but here in France everyone skulked off into the night as if it had never happened or didn't exist - there was no optimism that the next game would be ok, just total I told you so (not) depression.
For myself, well, I wanted to snigger about the very real possibility of the French being knocked out of their home World Cup in the first round but actually, as an Englishman, I have witnessed the fervent national pride and expectation of a nation being extinguished by Argentina far too often - different code but same result - so come on Ireland, stuff the Argies and let the French play on if possible, otherwise the next month might see the promising Sarkozy government fall and a new French revolution!!
The parking rules in London are draconian - unattended for five minutes in the wrong place and you have a ticket costing £40, ten minutes and you are clamped. My good friend Patrick was telling me last night that it's just the same in Chicago, where he lives most of the time, and where he has just been forced to pay for a permit to park outside his home. All of which make the parking rules here in Carcassonne an absolute joy. Where you do have to pay, it starts at 9.00am and ends at 6.00pm and the two hours of lunch between 12.00 and 2.00 are free, of course. If you buy a 'pay and display' ticket at 11.00am for two hours it will show 3.00pm as your limit, automatically taking into account the two hours of free lunch - how damn civilised is that? I have also been told that if you have paid to park and have a ticket displayed but have run over your time a bit, there is no way you will be given a ticket - I haven't tested this out but, given what follows it's not beyond the realm of truth.
So, after my late arrival on Friday, Chris and I popped down to the square for an early evening 'pression' and a catch-up on work and life. The road around the Place Carnot is quite narrow and parking spaces are few. Also, all drivers know that it is far easier to park by reversing into a space than trying to go in front first.
I didn't see the car coming as I had my back to the traffic flow but I saw it come past me and pull in nose first to the small space outside the pharmacy next to Bar Felix. No chance I thought, as I watched out of the corner of my eye whilst earnestly talking with Chris. Indeed, the driver made no attempt to get into the space and just left the car at 45 degrees to the kerb with it's tail sticking out into the road - a bit of film star parking of the highest grade. Just then I noticed two members of our local law enforcement agency standing opposite, watching every move, resplendent in their navy trousers, polo shirts with 'Police Municipale' emblazoned across the back, baseball caps and with handcuffs and guns on their belts. One of them started across the street just as the driver was getting out of the car. "Ooops", I said to myself and thought "You are in for a bit of a talking to'.
Think again - this is France. The 'PM' walked around the front of the car as the driver shut the door - he removed his cap and kissed the driver on both cheeks, exchanging a warm "Bon Soir" and "Ca Va". She then went into the pharmacy and he resumed his patrol with his colleague and the car remained precariously parked and causing an obstruction. If that doesn't sum up France, I don't know what does?
Later that evening I watched the opening game of the Rugby World Cup, being staged here in France for the first time. I have never known this nation to be so 'up for it' and behind their national team (I wasn't here for the football world cup in 1998 so can't compare). I walked into the bar just before kick-off and the tension was electric. When the French national anthem was played there were people standing up and singing along, which is always a spine-tingling experience when the anthem is as good as 'La Marseillaise', but I have never known it happen before. Mini rugby balls abounded and the 'tricolore' face paint was much in evidence. Even the poor, sole Argentinian fan had to endure the French colours being daubed on his face just after kick-off, but then again, he had the last laugh.
In case you don't know, it didn't quite go to plan and the French lost. Over the course of the two hours the cries of "Allez" became less vocal and by the end of the game the bar was subdued. At the final whistle the bar emptied. The so-called 'sages' were telling us that they knew this was going to happen and a nation uttered "dommage" (shame) or "cauchemar" (nightmare) depending on their point of view. There could not have been a bigger sense of anti-climax. Elsewhere in the world I know the fans would have had another couple or more beers and sang long into the night - in England, or Ireland, Wales, Scotland, South Africa, Australia or New Zealand - but here in France everyone skulked off into the night as if it had never happened or didn't exist - there was no optimism that the next game would be ok, just total I told you so (not) depression.
For myself, well, I wanted to snigger about the very real possibility of the French being knocked out of their home World Cup in the first round but actually, as an Englishman, I have witnessed the fervent national pride and expectation of a nation being extinguished by Argentina far too often - different code but same result - so come on Ireland, stuff the Argies and let the French play on if possible, otherwise the next month might see the promising Sarkozy government fall and a new French revolution!!
Out of Adversity
For the best part of two years I have been flying back and forwards between London and Carcassonne, using the much maligned by many, low cost service operated by Ryanair. In that time, and I don't know how many flights it is, I have suffered one inconvenient diversion to Perpignan, when Carcassonne was fogged in, and a few half hour late departures. Other than that the service has been excellent.
I am not going to enter the debate about the rights and wrongs of air travel because there is so much opinionated guff and twisted statistics touted by people on both sides of the argument that it is impossible to understand the true position. I've made my lifestyle choice - end of story. Likewise I do not think that the service is poor or that one is 'ripped off' at every opportunity. It is a 'no frills' airline, so you get no extras unless you pay for them. Even then it is still cheaper than the alternatives.
However, the law of averages is such that I was bound to get stuck in airline/airport misery at some point and this week it happened. Cancelled flight, wasted trip to the airport, back home, back again the next day, lost 36 hours etc etc.
The day started with indicators that all was not going to be well. My cab was 5 minutes late picking me up, no big deal, except that I have done this journey so often that I now leave virtually no slack time in my schedule, for which I only have myself to blame. A couple of extra red lights more than normal and I missed, just, my usual train. Again, no big deal, another one in 15 minutes which would still leave me just enough time to get through security and get to the gate - no coffee, no shopping, no stopping en route. Actually, I could have dawdled all I liked.
At the gate there was a full compliment of passengers but no sign of a plane, the first indicator that all was not well. An announcement followed almost immediately - our plane was on final approach and would be here very soon. It had been delayed because of fog across Northern Europe, a fact that was to be of significance later in the day as it obviously had a knock-on effect on their whole fleet, but at this point just meant that we were running about 15 minutes late, which was nothing and could easily have been made up during the flight.
So we boarded and settled into our seats and nothing happened. The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom - sorry about the slight (ha) delay / noticed a technical fault when flying to Stansted / engineers now working on it / should take about an hour.
It's a bizarre aspect of human nature, well, maybe it's English human nature, that it takes something unusual or a bit of adversity for people to start talking to each other. Up until that announcement, everyone was settling into their seats, creating their own bit of personal space using elbows and bags and water bottles as demarcation points and were all very head down, avoiding eye contact. Immediately after the announcement, there was a collective sigh and groan and then a resignation as to the situation and everyone looking at each other uttering "What a pain" or "Just what I need" or "Not much we can do". This rapidly became "Do you want to borrow my paper, I've finished with it" - we are all in this together so let's support each other type comments - and then finally "Hi, my name is Peter" and "Why are you heading to the Languedoc?" type introductions followed by the whole plane talking to each other. If all that hadn't happened I probably wouldn't have got talking to Simon, which would have been a shame because we have a lot in common - more of that later.
An hour later at about the time we should have been landing in Carcassonne, the pilot came back with more news. The engineers hadn't been able to fix the fault and we all had to get off the plane and go back into the terminal and wait whilst an alternative plane was found. More sighing and groaning and resignation as to the situation.
At this point, Ryanair customer service started to deteriorate along with the patience and temper of the passengers. The sequence of events went as follows - there will be a further announcement at 1.30pm (nearly two hours away) - the second Carcassonne flight of the day was announced and departed (very irritating to all) - at 1.30pm we were told that our flight would leave at 22.10pm!, cue pandemonium, shouting, finger pointing and much outrage from about 75% of the passengers who totally lost it - I thought there was going be a riot which would have been interesting to watch and felt very sorry for the one departure gate assistant who was left to pass on this information and face the music, which was a disgrace on Ryanair's part - they should have had five or six people there and certainly someone more senior to talk to passengers.
Whilst the majority shouted and raved at the lone red-faced and stressed-out assistant, who was desperately calling for back-up, the rest of us discussed the options. The flight wasn't cancelled, just delayed, so we couldn't switch to another flight unless we paid - besides which, the second Carcassonne flight had gone and the Perpignan one was about to leave which left Dinard, La Rochelle and Marseilles as not very useful options - so we just had to sit and wait until 10.00pm.
Finally, a manager arrived - pursed lips, ginger hair and a face like stone. Ten minutes later she announced that the flight was cancelled and her demeanour said very clearly that she couldn't give a damn. That was the cue for me to leave - there was never any point arguing and certainly no point arguing with her, so I left everyone to it and headed for the exit. There was a long queue at the reservations desk so I went straight to the train back to London, phoned Debrah for the Ryanair bookings number and managed to re-book over the phone for the following day.
So I finally got here at 4.00pm on Friday instead of lunchtime on Thursday - a waste of 36 hours but no harm done otherwise. I felt a bit sorry for the families and holidaymakers who would find it much more difficult to re-book and probably only had a fixed amount of time down here and I'm absolutely certain that Ryanair just left them to sort it out for themselves.
However, I did make a new acquaintance - the aforementioned Simon - who lives with his wife and young daughter in the Minervois. Small world that it is, he knows, from his previous life working in pharmaceuticals, one of our main contacts in the NHS with whom we are working to set up the clinical trials of the new product that my London job is bringing to market. His wife is also a Master of Wine, which could be interesting for me as a wine lover and me as proprietor of apartments to let. We have since exchanged emails and are planning to meet next week - indeed he has taken up my spare ticket for the Samoa v Tonga Rugby World Cup match next Sunday. Funny how fate throws people together in the oddest of circumstances.
I am not going to enter the debate about the rights and wrongs of air travel because there is so much opinionated guff and twisted statistics touted by people on both sides of the argument that it is impossible to understand the true position. I've made my lifestyle choice - end of story. Likewise I do not think that the service is poor or that one is 'ripped off' at every opportunity. It is a 'no frills' airline, so you get no extras unless you pay for them. Even then it is still cheaper than the alternatives.
However, the law of averages is such that I was bound to get stuck in airline/airport misery at some point and this week it happened. Cancelled flight, wasted trip to the airport, back home, back again the next day, lost 36 hours etc etc.
The day started with indicators that all was not going to be well. My cab was 5 minutes late picking me up, no big deal, except that I have done this journey so often that I now leave virtually no slack time in my schedule, for which I only have myself to blame. A couple of extra red lights more than normal and I missed, just, my usual train. Again, no big deal, another one in 15 minutes which would still leave me just enough time to get through security and get to the gate - no coffee, no shopping, no stopping en route. Actually, I could have dawdled all I liked.
At the gate there was a full compliment of passengers but no sign of a plane, the first indicator that all was not well. An announcement followed almost immediately - our plane was on final approach and would be here very soon. It had been delayed because of fog across Northern Europe, a fact that was to be of significance later in the day as it obviously had a knock-on effect on their whole fleet, but at this point just meant that we were running about 15 minutes late, which was nothing and could easily have been made up during the flight.
So we boarded and settled into our seats and nothing happened. The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom - sorry about the slight (ha) delay / noticed a technical fault when flying to Stansted / engineers now working on it / should take about an hour.
It's a bizarre aspect of human nature, well, maybe it's English human nature, that it takes something unusual or a bit of adversity for people to start talking to each other. Up until that announcement, everyone was settling into their seats, creating their own bit of personal space using elbows and bags and water bottles as demarcation points and were all very head down, avoiding eye contact. Immediately after the announcement, there was a collective sigh and groan and then a resignation as to the situation and everyone looking at each other uttering "What a pain" or "Just what I need" or "Not much we can do". This rapidly became "Do you want to borrow my paper, I've finished with it" - we are all in this together so let's support each other type comments - and then finally "Hi, my name is Peter" and "Why are you heading to the Languedoc?" type introductions followed by the whole plane talking to each other. If all that hadn't happened I probably wouldn't have got talking to Simon, which would have been a shame because we have a lot in common - more of that later.
An hour later at about the time we should have been landing in Carcassonne, the pilot came back with more news. The engineers hadn't been able to fix the fault and we all had to get off the plane and go back into the terminal and wait whilst an alternative plane was found. More sighing and groaning and resignation as to the situation.
At this point, Ryanair customer service started to deteriorate along with the patience and temper of the passengers. The sequence of events went as follows - there will be a further announcement at 1.30pm (nearly two hours away) - the second Carcassonne flight of the day was announced and departed (very irritating to all) - at 1.30pm we were told that our flight would leave at 22.10pm!, cue pandemonium, shouting, finger pointing and much outrage from about 75% of the passengers who totally lost it - I thought there was going be a riot which would have been interesting to watch and felt very sorry for the one departure gate assistant who was left to pass on this information and face the music, which was a disgrace on Ryanair's part - they should have had five or six people there and certainly someone more senior to talk to passengers.
Whilst the majority shouted and raved at the lone red-faced and stressed-out assistant, who was desperately calling for back-up, the rest of us discussed the options. The flight wasn't cancelled, just delayed, so we couldn't switch to another flight unless we paid - besides which, the second Carcassonne flight had gone and the Perpignan one was about to leave which left Dinard, La Rochelle and Marseilles as not very useful options - so we just had to sit and wait until 10.00pm.
Finally, a manager arrived - pursed lips, ginger hair and a face like stone. Ten minutes later she announced that the flight was cancelled and her demeanour said very clearly that she couldn't give a damn. That was the cue for me to leave - there was never any point arguing and certainly no point arguing with her, so I left everyone to it and headed for the exit. There was a long queue at the reservations desk so I went straight to the train back to London, phoned Debrah for the Ryanair bookings number and managed to re-book over the phone for the following day.
So I finally got here at 4.00pm on Friday instead of lunchtime on Thursday - a waste of 36 hours but no harm done otherwise. I felt a bit sorry for the families and holidaymakers who would find it much more difficult to re-book and probably only had a fixed amount of time down here and I'm absolutely certain that Ryanair just left them to sort it out for themselves.
However, I did make a new acquaintance - the aforementioned Simon - who lives with his wife and young daughter in the Minervois. Small world that it is, he knows, from his previous life working in pharmaceuticals, one of our main contacts in the NHS with whom we are working to set up the clinical trials of the new product that my London job is bringing to market. His wife is also a Master of Wine, which could be interesting for me as a wine lover and me as proprietor of apartments to let. We have since exchanged emails and are planning to meet next week - indeed he has taken up my spare ticket for the Samoa v Tonga Rugby World Cup match next Sunday. Funny how fate throws people together in the oddest of circumstances.
Sunday, 2 September 2007
Old and a bit sad
Now that I have got my typing fingers back I really feel that I should keep on with the message so here I am again with more news from the sunny (yes it is still sunny I am very glad to say) Languedoc.
I have been wondering whether to change the look of my blog ever since Debrah said it was really difficult for her to read the white type on the black background. I'm not sure that I'm the best judge because firstly, she is a typographer and I'm not, and secondly, I have managed to get to age 48 without needing glasses but have recently found it very difficult to focus on any words closer than two feet from my eyes, resulting, according to my Irish friend Denis, in a symptom known as tromboning, as I move the words further and closer and further away until they come into focus. I hope I haven't reached the point when all bodily functions start to show signs of fatigue - that would be very depressing.
My much abused, slightly bashed and very trusty old Audi Cabriolet- or builders van as it is otherwise known - is showing the same signs of fatigue and nearly lost it's exhaust over the vicious speed hump at the exit of the Tridome builders yard, laden down with 100kg of sand and gravel and four 2.6m lengths of plasterboard (cut to size so that they fit in the back of the open top). It now has a piece of electrical wire holding the end of the exhaust to the underside of the chassis as the original fixing seems to have parted company somewhere along the wayside.
"I need to take it to the French equivalent of KwikFit", I said.
"If I come back in a years time, it will still be held on by wire", said the genius.
"Er, probably", I replied.
I can't seem to get the car to the menders any quicker than I can get myself there. Perhaps we shall both continue to soldier along and grow old disgracefully together.
Anyway, the blog stays as it is because I like it.
It was another beautiful sunrise this morning and, knowing that there was a 'brocante' just down the road and that the best stuff really does get snapped up in the first hour, we hauled ourselves out of bed and spent an hour or so looking at everybody's tat and shite that the venders expected people like us to part with good money for - and part with good money we did, of course, and not on anything that anyone could have predicted. We handled many decanters and glasses and mirrors and enquired about a couple of overpriced tables and toyed with some old school posters because they were 'graphically' very interesting. We ignored the old computers with less power than my mobile phone and the scary dolls staring out of boxes and the equally scary old farm and kitchen implements.
We came home with as random a list of items as anyone could imagine - an, obviously, out of date 1970's blue guide to the Languedoc Roussillon region, a foie gras cutter, a large silver serving tray, a small bust of Napolean (which is staring at me from the kitchen mantlepiece as I type) and a French published text in English of Macbeth with associated notes. What a brilliantly unpredicatable and fabulous set of purchases.
Later, we went to find some new river swimming spots that had been recommended, a while back, by my friend Herve. We found them both in a beautiful valley in the mountains south of Carcassonne and had an equally lovely drive back home with superbly impressive views of the Pyrenees and then the Cite. It made us both feel very sad that we have to return to London tomorrow and leave this idyllic place - but needs must.
When we got home I logged on to do our online check-ins and discovered that we are booked on different flights back to London tomorrow - how dipsy is that? We better get our act together before the paying guests arrive.
I have been wondering whether to change the look of my blog ever since Debrah said it was really difficult for her to read the white type on the black background. I'm not sure that I'm the best judge because firstly, she is a typographer and I'm not, and secondly, I have managed to get to age 48 without needing glasses but have recently found it very difficult to focus on any words closer than two feet from my eyes, resulting, according to my Irish friend Denis, in a symptom known as tromboning, as I move the words further and closer and further away until they come into focus. I hope I haven't reached the point when all bodily functions start to show signs of fatigue - that would be very depressing.
My much abused, slightly bashed and very trusty old Audi Cabriolet- or builders van as it is otherwise known - is showing the same signs of fatigue and nearly lost it's exhaust over the vicious speed hump at the exit of the Tridome builders yard, laden down with 100kg of sand and gravel and four 2.6m lengths of plasterboard (cut to size so that they fit in the back of the open top). It now has a piece of electrical wire holding the end of the exhaust to the underside of the chassis as the original fixing seems to have parted company somewhere along the wayside.
"I need to take it to the French equivalent of KwikFit", I said.
"If I come back in a years time, it will still be held on by wire", said the genius.
"Er, probably", I replied.
I can't seem to get the car to the menders any quicker than I can get myself there. Perhaps we shall both continue to soldier along and grow old disgracefully together.
Anyway, the blog stays as it is because I like it.
It was another beautiful sunrise this morning and, knowing that there was a 'brocante' just down the road and that the best stuff really does get snapped up in the first hour, we hauled ourselves out of bed and spent an hour or so looking at everybody's tat and shite that the venders expected people like us to part with good money for - and part with good money we did, of course, and not on anything that anyone could have predicted. We handled many decanters and glasses and mirrors and enquired about a couple of overpriced tables and toyed with some old school posters because they were 'graphically' very interesting. We ignored the old computers with less power than my mobile phone and the scary dolls staring out of boxes and the equally scary old farm and kitchen implements.
We came home with as random a list of items as anyone could imagine - an, obviously, out of date 1970's blue guide to the Languedoc Roussillon region, a foie gras cutter, a large silver serving tray, a small bust of Napolean (which is staring at me from the kitchen mantlepiece as I type) and a French published text in English of Macbeth with associated notes. What a brilliantly unpredicatable and fabulous set of purchases.
Later, we went to find some new river swimming spots that had been recommended, a while back, by my friend Herve. We found them both in a beautiful valley in the mountains south of Carcassonne and had an equally lovely drive back home with superbly impressive views of the Pyrenees and then the Cite. It made us both feel very sad that we have to return to London tomorrow and leave this idyllic place - but needs must.
When we got home I logged on to do our online check-ins and discovered that we are booked on different flights back to London tomorrow - how dipsy is that? We better get our act together before the paying guests arrive.
Saturday, 1 September 2007
August Madness
Well, it has been a while since I last reported on life in the 'supposedly' sunny Languedoc. I am not sure why it has taken me almost a month to let you all know what has been going on - maybe the weather has been getting me down. I know that it has probably been better here than in many places, after all we didn't have floods or an earthquake or a hurricane, but I was promised 300 days of sunshine a year and it is now two thirds of the way through 2007 and by my estimation we've had about 110 days so far this year which leaves me feeling considerably short-changed in the weather department. Three days of sun then five days of rain etc etc - what is going on?
The weather hasn't been the only excitement since I last put finger to keyboard - manufacturing of the first trial units is underway for my London work, 'the genius' is back earlier than expected from the US and is already making giant inroads into the studio renovation, which is just as well because we have confirmed bookings for studio and apartment for New Year (Oh my God! - paying guests - help!) and we have celebrated our wedding anniversary, my birthday and Debrah's birthday in the last two weeks and had a house full of guests over the August bank holiday weekend which coincided with the Spanish festival here in Carcassonne. It is definitely all go and very full on which is just how I want it to continue - so fingers crossed and rub the lucky rabbits paw against the lucky horseshoe and hope for the best - what were the lottery numbers last week?
So, taking each of those excitements in turn - I am completely thrilled that finally we are manufacturing the first trial units for my London work and feel especially happy for my very good friends Giovanna and Vincent, who have put so much of their lives and effort and money into this brilliant project. We just need to get through this trial stage and then I know we will sell quadrillions of these things to everyone round the world - I am not exaggerating, it is what I believe.
'The genius' had to return from the US earlier than both he and I expected, for various reasons, which I think may be beneficial to us both in the end. It means, for me, that he is back here and working flat out on the studio renovation and, I hope, a few final tidying up bits on the work he has done before. The current plan is that he will have finished all by the end of October, which gives me a few weeks to sort out any last minute issues, for Debrah to furnish and prettify and for us to generally get our act together about potentially paying guests turning up and expecting hospitality of some sort!
August is an absolutely ridiculous month from a 'special dates' point of view. It starts with my daughter's birthday on the 3rd and ends with my mother's birthday on the 30th and in between is our wedding anniversary, my birthday, Debrah's birthday and the birthdays of a least four close friends, all of whom usually get forgotten in the general melee. Timing is all and this year it just so happened that I was able to surprise Debrah on our anniversary and take her out for a fabulous impromptu seafood lunch which was divine. Unfortunately, my birthday was spent cleaning and shopping ahead of the arrival of a weekend full of guests, which couldn't be helped and is something I better get used to - but we still managed to find time for a lovely dinner together at a new-ish restaurant in Carcassonne that is rapidly becoming a favourite.
Debrah, the wonderful lucky lady that she is, got 35 degree sunshine, a picnic by the river at Lagrasse, a house full of guests who danced and drank, and sang in several languages. How marvellous - but I enjoyed their company and humour and bonhomie as much as Debrah so treated it as my own whilst revelling in her pleasure.
On the day before her birthday we had intended to take in the highlight of the Spanish festival - Chico and the Gypsies - formerly/related to the Gypsy Kings of early 90's fame - but somehow got waylaid at the Makhila bar ' bodega' and drank copious amounts of so-called rose wine out of plastic cups poured from a plastic milk bottle - a very very large number of which accumulated, embarrasingly, under our plastic table. Des fell off his plastic chair; I walked Debrah home but returned to the crime scene; Aib had to walk/carry Anna home; 'the genius' went walkabout; Gary bought us all calvados to go on top of the anti-freeze and then had two pills dropped in his drink and absolutely everyone had a hangover the next day !!
A fantastically good time was had by all involved, I believe, which is how I intend life here in Carcassonne, in the Languedoc, in the South of France, to continue.
The weather hasn't been the only excitement since I last put finger to keyboard - manufacturing of the first trial units is underway for my London work, 'the genius' is back earlier than expected from the US and is already making giant inroads into the studio renovation, which is just as well because we have confirmed bookings for studio and apartment for New Year (Oh my God! - paying guests - help!) and we have celebrated our wedding anniversary, my birthday and Debrah's birthday in the last two weeks and had a house full of guests over the August bank holiday weekend which coincided with the Spanish festival here in Carcassonne. It is definitely all go and very full on which is just how I want it to continue - so fingers crossed and rub the lucky rabbits paw against the lucky horseshoe and hope for the best - what were the lottery numbers last week?
So, taking each of those excitements in turn - I am completely thrilled that finally we are manufacturing the first trial units for my London work and feel especially happy for my very good friends Giovanna and Vincent, who have put so much of their lives and effort and money into this brilliant project. We just need to get through this trial stage and then I know we will sell quadrillions of these things to everyone round the world - I am not exaggerating, it is what I believe.
'The genius' had to return from the US earlier than both he and I expected, for various reasons, which I think may be beneficial to us both in the end. It means, for me, that he is back here and working flat out on the studio renovation and, I hope, a few final tidying up bits on the work he has done before. The current plan is that he will have finished all by the end of October, which gives me a few weeks to sort out any last minute issues, for Debrah to furnish and prettify and for us to generally get our act together about potentially paying guests turning up and expecting hospitality of some sort!
August is an absolutely ridiculous month from a 'special dates' point of view. It starts with my daughter's birthday on the 3rd and ends with my mother's birthday on the 30th and in between is our wedding anniversary, my birthday, Debrah's birthday and the birthdays of a least four close friends, all of whom usually get forgotten in the general melee. Timing is all and this year it just so happened that I was able to surprise Debrah on our anniversary and take her out for a fabulous impromptu seafood lunch which was divine. Unfortunately, my birthday was spent cleaning and shopping ahead of the arrival of a weekend full of guests, which couldn't be helped and is something I better get used to - but we still managed to find time for a lovely dinner together at a new-ish restaurant in Carcassonne that is rapidly becoming a favourite.
Debrah, the wonderful lucky lady that she is, got 35 degree sunshine, a picnic by the river at Lagrasse, a house full of guests who danced and drank, and sang in several languages. How marvellous - but I enjoyed their company and humour and bonhomie as much as Debrah so treated it as my own whilst revelling in her pleasure.
On the day before her birthday we had intended to take in the highlight of the Spanish festival - Chico and the Gypsies - formerly/related to the Gypsy Kings of early 90's fame - but somehow got waylaid at the Makhila bar ' bodega' and drank copious amounts of so-called rose wine out of plastic cups poured from a plastic milk bottle - a very very large number of which accumulated, embarrasingly, under our plastic table. Des fell off his plastic chair; I walked Debrah home but returned to the crime scene; Aib had to walk/carry Anna home; 'the genius' went walkabout; Gary bought us all calvados to go on top of the anti-freeze and then had two pills dropped in his drink and absolutely everyone had a hangover the next day !!
A fantastically good time was had by all involved, I believe, which is how I intend life here in Carcassonne, in the Languedoc, in the South of France, to continue.
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