Four days on from the excitement of buying my first truffle and I still haven't really done anything with it. Well, I took a photo of it and sent it to Debrah and I cut into it, putting the larger piece into the freezer and the smaller piece in the fridge and the crumbs into my mouth, but I haven't cooked with it or eaten it with anything else. I might just buy a few small bottles, decant some decent olive oil into each and a small piece of truffle and that will be next years Christmas presents sorted. So, if you are reading this and you are nice to me this year, you know what to expect.
Last week I put in our final Ikea order for the rest of the shelving system for the office and utility room and for some furniture for the dining room. This week I have had a daily conversation with a charming but utterly useless assistant on the so called 'helpline' - so far they have promised much and delivered nothing; in fact they haven't as yet committed to deliver anything and my frustration is growing. i shall be back on the phone again first thing in the morning.
My frustration is nothing compared to the ordeal that Patrick is going through. Having successfully bid for the Irish Bar, it was subsequently discovered that the whole place had been cleaned out - fridges, glass washers, AC units, furniture, till, the lot. Absolutely no doubt as to who was involved in the robbery (slightly bitter ex owner?) but not sure anyone can prove it, so it all comes down to an insurance claim. French bureaucracy being a national institution and pastime, I can only see much work being created for the Mairie and the insurance company and the Gendarmerie and many apologies and shoulder shrugging and a very very slow resolution to the whole saga. Patrick wanted to be open at the very latest for St Patricks Day (naturally) but that could just be Irish mist.
I had dinner with Patrick the other night at a restaurant called 'Le Sixieme Sens' (sixth sense). He was slightly worried when I met him that he hadn't made a booking. I assured him that on a Tuesday in January we would be ok and so it turned out - we were the only people in the place. There were in fact more staff (4) than customers (2) which made us wonder how they make a profit and keep going at all. It didn't help that we only had a main course and a bottle of wine - no starter and no dessert, no aperitif and no digestif and no coffee. The food was excellent so it would be a real shame if it came to the worst for them, but I am sure they will be busier at the end of the week and further into the season.
Last night, Gary dropped in to borrow a book about the Cathars which he needed for reference for the film script he is writing. I love Gary to bits and have total respect for his amazing self-belief in everything he does. I really do hope that it results in a massively successful film. When he left, four hours after arriving (which is quite a long time just to pick up a book) we had drunk too much red wine and talked too much complete bollocks. C'est la vie et c'est Gary.
Debrah arrives tomorrow for the weekend - lots of box sorting to be done and people to meet and, hopefully, a bit of time to ourselves - after all, it's a quiet time of year.
Thursday, 31 January 2008
Sunday, 27 January 2008
My First Truffle
It's so long since I last posted here that I feel a bit ashamed of my lack of attention to my audience, which I notice from my statcounter, has diminished to absolutely zero - not really a surprise considering my neglect.
Well, no explanations given and no excuses - basically I've been a bit rubbish.
I came back last Sunday - yes, a whole week ago, - and sort of spent the week cooped up in the apartment doing all the little jobs that need finishing off (a bit of painting here and there, boxes that need emptying etc) as well as trying to get paid for the last four months of work I've done for my London job - problems, problems, - but there is light at the end of the tunnel.
The weather has been absolutely fantastic these last few days. It's January, so, of course, it's been a bit chilly in the morning and evening but in the middle of the day it has been quite lovely - so much so that you can notice the tingle on your face when you get home. That might be also to do with driving around with the roof down - heh, the sun is out - the roof is down.
Today, the sun shone and sparkled on the top of the snow covered Pyrenees. No matter how romantic or fabulous or fantastic that might sound, there is absolutely no substitute for seeing it. My camera failed to catch the glory and my words are nothing compared to the majesty of glimpsing the sun reflecting off the snowy peaks through the winter haze. It just has to be seen first hand.
Anyway, enough of that poetic twaddle - there was a village fete and truffle market taking place at Moussoullens today and I went along. In most respects it was the same as every French village fete, which is the same as every English village fete - full of the usual suspects.
The usual suspects in the Languedoc means plenty of wine tasting opportunities, today featuring mostly Cabardes wines, fresh oysters from Bouzigues, onions from Citou, roast chestnuts, local cheeses, foie gras, naturellement, and the local village vin chaud, soupa and sandwich outlets. 'Soupa" is neither English nor French nor Spanish but is, of course, soup and needs no further description than that but does explain the completely mixed up nature of the population round here - and the soup was delicious.
This would have been just another local village fete except that it was also one of the official truffle markets of the Aude, which means there was some ceremony involved and there was a serious side to the proceedings. As the time drew near to the 2.30pm official opening, a crowd started to gather around the designated area. This had just looked like a random space with a few trestle tables but suddenly it all became very serious. The area was roped off from us, the general public, whilst the 'negotiants' set out their wares - not exactly set out, there was still much secrecy - they had their scales for weighing and their wallets and purses and they all had bags and baskets that looked as if they were bulging with truffles but they were all still firmly shut tight.
Ten minutes to go and a very serious looking man with a very serious looking moustache started to walk around the table and one by one he spoke to each of the traders, examined their wares and allowed them to open their bag or basket and empty their little black prizes out into the full view of the public. I saw no money change hands and no paperwork of any sort so am still in the dark as to what went on. The surrounding crowd was by now four or five deep at the rope and standing on walls and climbing up surrounding buildings in the hope of getting a view. Despite the melee, there was an awed silence about the proceedings.
When the moustache had finished it's tour of the traders, it spoke some incomprehensible French/Occitan and then, at exactly 2,30pm, it whacked the table very loudly and, I can only presume because I didn't understand a word, announced the market open for business. At this point the ropes were pulled aside and small children risked being crushed as the crowd surged in on the tables and traders. Not wanting to feel left out I stood on a couple of toddlers myself and got stuck in to see what all the fuss was about.
There was a lot of sniffing. There was a lot of prodding. There was quite a lot of shoulder shrugging and many an 'Alors'. it was all very serious and it was difficult not to get caught up in it all.
So I am now the proud owner of a 20 gram black truffle that cost me 20 euros, which my French friends told me was a very good deal. The question is - What am I going to do with it?
Well, no explanations given and no excuses - basically I've been a bit rubbish.
I came back last Sunday - yes, a whole week ago, - and sort of spent the week cooped up in the apartment doing all the little jobs that need finishing off (a bit of painting here and there, boxes that need emptying etc) as well as trying to get paid for the last four months of work I've done for my London job - problems, problems, - but there is light at the end of the tunnel.
The weather has been absolutely fantastic these last few days. It's January, so, of course, it's been a bit chilly in the morning and evening but in the middle of the day it has been quite lovely - so much so that you can notice the tingle on your face when you get home. That might be also to do with driving around with the roof down - heh, the sun is out - the roof is down.
Today, the sun shone and sparkled on the top of the snow covered Pyrenees. No matter how romantic or fabulous or fantastic that might sound, there is absolutely no substitute for seeing it. My camera failed to catch the glory and my words are nothing compared to the majesty of glimpsing the sun reflecting off the snowy peaks through the winter haze. It just has to be seen first hand.
Anyway, enough of that poetic twaddle - there was a village fete and truffle market taking place at Moussoullens today and I went along. In most respects it was the same as every French village fete, which is the same as every English village fete - full of the usual suspects.
The usual suspects in the Languedoc means plenty of wine tasting opportunities, today featuring mostly Cabardes wines, fresh oysters from Bouzigues, onions from Citou, roast chestnuts, local cheeses, foie gras, naturellement, and the local village vin chaud, soupa and sandwich outlets. 'Soupa" is neither English nor French nor Spanish but is, of course, soup and needs no further description than that but does explain the completely mixed up nature of the population round here - and the soup was delicious.
This would have been just another local village fete except that it was also one of the official truffle markets of the Aude, which means there was some ceremony involved and there was a serious side to the proceedings. As the time drew near to the 2.30pm official opening, a crowd started to gather around the designated area. This had just looked like a random space with a few trestle tables but suddenly it all became very serious. The area was roped off from us, the general public, whilst the 'negotiants' set out their wares - not exactly set out, there was still much secrecy - they had their scales for weighing and their wallets and purses and they all had bags and baskets that looked as if they were bulging with truffles but they were all still firmly shut tight.
Ten minutes to go and a very serious looking man with a very serious looking moustache started to walk around the table and one by one he spoke to each of the traders, examined their wares and allowed them to open their bag or basket and empty their little black prizes out into the full view of the public. I saw no money change hands and no paperwork of any sort so am still in the dark as to what went on. The surrounding crowd was by now four or five deep at the rope and standing on walls and climbing up surrounding buildings in the hope of getting a view. Despite the melee, there was an awed silence about the proceedings.
When the moustache had finished it's tour of the traders, it spoke some incomprehensible French/Occitan and then, at exactly 2,30pm, it whacked the table very loudly and, I can only presume because I didn't understand a word, announced the market open for business. At this point the ropes were pulled aside and small children risked being crushed as the crowd surged in on the tables and traders. Not wanting to feel left out I stood on a couple of toddlers myself and got stuck in to see what all the fuss was about.
There was a lot of sniffing. There was a lot of prodding. There was quite a lot of shoulder shrugging and many an 'Alors'. it was all very serious and it was difficult not to get caught up in it all.
So I am now the proud owner of a 20 gram black truffle that cost me 20 euros, which my French friends told me was a very good deal. The question is - What am I going to do with it?
Thursday, 3 January 2008
Mad Week
I was rubbish at blog writing over the festive period and now it is 2008 already - too many guests and too much to do is my excuse though even I don't believe that for a moment.
It has been absolutely fabulous to have had Amy here for the past week and I am very sad that she is going home tomorrow. It feels so right to have her around, pulling me up on my bad habits and errant ways. She feels so much like an extension of me and I will miss her terribly - but she has her life to live and so back to her mum in Lincolnshire and then university in Lancaster she will go - with my deepest and dearest thoughts until the next time we can get together.
Out of the blue, Tim and Giovanna came to stay - nothing was planned, then Gio was coming, then they were both coming. They arrived on New Years Eve which turned into a dinner followed by nightclub type silliness which was followed by a slower early to bed night and then another over the top drunken 60's/70's/80's music night at home followed by a slower early to bed night and then departure tomorrow. It has been a bit all or nothing round here this week.
On the hungover calm days I seem to have spent my time driving which isn't good.
On New Years Day we drove down to Argeles to see Nick and Chris at their beach house where they always have a party on the sand to welcome in the new year. What could be better than being wrapped up in scarves and hats, sat round a brazier on the beach overlooking the Med and the Pyrenees - well, the sun could have been out for a start and we could have got there before all the soup was consumed. In fact, it was a glorious day until we got within 10km of the beach which was a bit of a shame and we were very late setting out on account of the big night the night before which meant that we were late arriving so of course all the soup had gone - but we drank champagne and ate cheese and baguette and sat around the fire and had a good chat with our friends so it was a journey well worth making.
Today I drove to Ikea in Toulouse to try and get the shelving that we need to put in the office. I say try because it wasn't altogether a successful trip and it wasn't just I because Amy came with me after Debrah refused to come on account of being sick in the night and her almighty hangover as a result of the vodka and tequila shots and the massive night we had 'chez moi'.
It was a most frustrating shopping trip in all respects - they didn't have all that we needed in stock and what they did have wouldn't fit in the car so I had to arrange a delivery and, basically, it was a complete balls up. We either have to go back or we have to arrange another delivery and none of it is ideal and just proves that you shouldn't try and do anything sensible the day after a massive blow out drunken night - even if you have got your sensible daughter with you, in fact, especially if you have got your sensible daughter with you because it makes you look even more of a fool.
A mad mad week - it is now pissing down outside and everyone has gone to bed. I think that is a good idea - goodnight.
It has been absolutely fabulous to have had Amy here for the past week and I am very sad that she is going home tomorrow. It feels so right to have her around, pulling me up on my bad habits and errant ways. She feels so much like an extension of me and I will miss her terribly - but she has her life to live and so back to her mum in Lincolnshire and then university in Lancaster she will go - with my deepest and dearest thoughts until the next time we can get together.
Out of the blue, Tim and Giovanna came to stay - nothing was planned, then Gio was coming, then they were both coming. They arrived on New Years Eve which turned into a dinner followed by nightclub type silliness which was followed by a slower early to bed night and then another over the top drunken 60's/70's/80's music night at home followed by a slower early to bed night and then departure tomorrow. It has been a bit all or nothing round here this week.
On the hungover calm days I seem to have spent my time driving which isn't good.
On New Years Day we drove down to Argeles to see Nick and Chris at their beach house where they always have a party on the sand to welcome in the new year. What could be better than being wrapped up in scarves and hats, sat round a brazier on the beach overlooking the Med and the Pyrenees - well, the sun could have been out for a start and we could have got there before all the soup was consumed. In fact, it was a glorious day until we got within 10km of the beach which was a bit of a shame and we were very late setting out on account of the big night the night before which meant that we were late arriving so of course all the soup had gone - but we drank champagne and ate cheese and baguette and sat around the fire and had a good chat with our friends so it was a journey well worth making.
Today I drove to Ikea in Toulouse to try and get the shelving that we need to put in the office. I say try because it wasn't altogether a successful trip and it wasn't just I because Amy came with me after Debrah refused to come on account of being sick in the night and her almighty hangover as a result of the vodka and tequila shots and the massive night we had 'chez moi'.
It was a most frustrating shopping trip in all respects - they didn't have all that we needed in stock and what they did have wouldn't fit in the car so I had to arrange a delivery and, basically, it was a complete balls up. We either have to go back or we have to arrange another delivery and none of it is ideal and just proves that you shouldn't try and do anything sensible the day after a massive blow out drunken night - even if you have got your sensible daughter with you, in fact, especially if you have got your sensible daughter with you because it makes you look even more of a fool.
A mad mad week - it is now pissing down outside and everyone has gone to bed. I think that is a good idea - goodnight.
Friday, 28 December 2007
Amy arrives
As Chris and I walked home from an evening of name dropping stories chez Gary and Des, the stars shone brightly and the copious amount of Armagnac we had each drunk kept us inurred to the cold night air. The forecast wasn't great for early morning and I knew that if it was foggy again tomorrow then Amy's flight may well not be able to land. I hoped for the best.
I awoke just before eight and just before my alarm. We had been working late in the studio the day before so hadn't had chance to clear up and sort things out for Amy. So I jumped out of bed and cleaned the studio bathroom and found towels and sheets and pillows and generally tried to make the place look as welcoming as possible as a place with a chop saw and toolboxes and paint tins and power tools hanging about the place can look.
The winter fog usually lifts by about 11.00am and the forecast promised a bright sunny day after that, but Amy's flight was due in at 10.00am and as I drove up to the airport I knew in my heart that alternative arrangements were about to come into play.
Sure enough a message tone rang out on my phone - 'we have landed in Perpignan because it was too foggy in Carcassonne', it said. I knew it and was prepared - well, not quite prepared because I had left home in thick fog and, therefore, didn't pick up my sunglasses and as soon as I hit the autoroute and left the immediate vicinity of Carcassonne I was driving in bright sunshine with a very low sun in my face.
I knew from my own previous experience that the bus that would be arranged to transfer the passengers from Perpignan to Carcassonne would not arrive for a couple of hours and would be a slow journey back - so I immediately set off for Perpignan airport when I got Amy's message. It would only take an hour there and another back and I was eager to see her as soon as I could. From Amy's point of view she got a much closer view of the snow capped Pyrenees than she would otherwise have got and had a drive up the coastal route past the Etangs and oyster beds and flamingoes that she wouldn't have seen if all had gone to plan - every cloud / silver lining and all that.
Naturally, there was very little fog in evidence when we got back to Carcassonne and by now it had turned into a lovely sunny winters day - so lovely in fact that Christian, Amy and myself went down to the square and sat outside Bar Felix and had a wonderful steak and chips lunch.
Debrah had gone into one of her housewife/girly modes that affect her now and again and had demolished the backlog of ironing that had been hanging around (and indeed multiplying) and then started sowing and making curtains (thank you Anna for the loan of your sowing machine) for the studio windows which would give Amy a little bit more privacy.
This evening Debrah cooked a fabulous paella and we sat around the kitchen table talking and laughing and doing a Christmas quiz. It was completely non-competitive and just very social and just very lovely.
I can't find the right words to explain how I feel about Amy coming out to France for the week - but I know that I am very very happy about it.
I awoke just before eight and just before my alarm. We had been working late in the studio the day before so hadn't had chance to clear up and sort things out for Amy. So I jumped out of bed and cleaned the studio bathroom and found towels and sheets and pillows and generally tried to make the place look as welcoming as possible as a place with a chop saw and toolboxes and paint tins and power tools hanging about the place can look.
The winter fog usually lifts by about 11.00am and the forecast promised a bright sunny day after that, but Amy's flight was due in at 10.00am and as I drove up to the airport I knew in my heart that alternative arrangements were about to come into play.
Sure enough a message tone rang out on my phone - 'we have landed in Perpignan because it was too foggy in Carcassonne', it said. I knew it and was prepared - well, not quite prepared because I had left home in thick fog and, therefore, didn't pick up my sunglasses and as soon as I hit the autoroute and left the immediate vicinity of Carcassonne I was driving in bright sunshine with a very low sun in my face.
I knew from my own previous experience that the bus that would be arranged to transfer the passengers from Perpignan to Carcassonne would not arrive for a couple of hours and would be a slow journey back - so I immediately set off for Perpignan airport when I got Amy's message. It would only take an hour there and another back and I was eager to see her as soon as I could. From Amy's point of view she got a much closer view of the snow capped Pyrenees than she would otherwise have got and had a drive up the coastal route past the Etangs and oyster beds and flamingoes that she wouldn't have seen if all had gone to plan - every cloud / silver lining and all that.
Naturally, there was very little fog in evidence when we got back to Carcassonne and by now it had turned into a lovely sunny winters day - so lovely in fact that Christian, Amy and myself went down to the square and sat outside Bar Felix and had a wonderful steak and chips lunch.
Debrah had gone into one of her housewife/girly modes that affect her now and again and had demolished the backlog of ironing that had been hanging around (and indeed multiplying) and then started sowing and making curtains (thank you Anna for the loan of your sowing machine) for the studio windows which would give Amy a little bit more privacy.
This evening Debrah cooked a fabulous paella and we sat around the kitchen table talking and laughing and doing a Christmas quiz. It was completely non-competitive and just very social and just very lovely.
I can't find the right words to explain how I feel about Amy coming out to France for the week - but I know that I am very very happy about it.
Wednesday, 26 December 2007
An Odd Christmas
We were so busy trying to finish all the jobs that needed doing in the studio that we missed all the carol concerts this year. I thought we weren't going to get a rib of beef, we had left it so late to enquire, but the butcher did us proud with an absolutely fantastic four rib, five kilo, hunk of cow that we asked for on Saturday and collected two days later on Christmas Eve. The last market day before Christmas was cold and drizzly, which is never fun and with Debrah just getting over her flu and having toothache and stomach ache to cope with also - well, nothing was really going to plan. There has been a strange atmosphere pervading the whole week.
Last year we missed the fireworks in the square, watching them from the windows over the street. This year we decided that we would go down to the square for the 'spectacle', which was due to start at seven in the evening, and was to be followed immediately by the fireworks. We very nearly missed them again - Christian and I went on ahead but were so underwhelmed by the stage show that we returned home to find Debrah, who had promised to follow on but hadn't as yet. Naturally, the fireworks started as we sat talking at home and so we all had to rush down the street to the square to catch the last ten minutes.
They were being launched from the top of the building on the east side of the square but the strong wind was affecting the trajectory, such that the fireworks were blowing out over the square, and particularly the corner of the square where we had just arrived. Looking virtually straight up at fireworks that were exploding no more than 100 feet above us, with both the noise and the shower of sparks, was quite an experience - one which I suspect would have fallen foul of the more recent autocratic health and safety regime sweeping across the UK.
The beef was fabulous but to be honest Christmas Day was a bit strange too. We all came together to eat for a couple of hours at four in the afternoon, but before and after Christian and Chris disappeared into their rooms and Debrah and I spent Christmas together - which was fabulous but a little odd considering the 'hiding' non-participants. It all seemed a bit surreal. In addition, Debrah's mum seems to have gone missing somewhere in Berlin - it's very odd that she didn't phone and hasn't been in touch at all since she left for Germany seven days ago.
We have decided that next year we will just have paying guests.
Last year we missed the fireworks in the square, watching them from the windows over the street. This year we decided that we would go down to the square for the 'spectacle', which was due to start at seven in the evening, and was to be followed immediately by the fireworks. We very nearly missed them again - Christian and I went on ahead but were so underwhelmed by the stage show that we returned home to find Debrah, who had promised to follow on but hadn't as yet. Naturally, the fireworks started as we sat talking at home and so we all had to rush down the street to the square to catch the last ten minutes.
They were being launched from the top of the building on the east side of the square but the strong wind was affecting the trajectory, such that the fireworks were blowing out over the square, and particularly the corner of the square where we had just arrived. Looking virtually straight up at fireworks that were exploding no more than 100 feet above us, with both the noise and the shower of sparks, was quite an experience - one which I suspect would have fallen foul of the more recent autocratic health and safety regime sweeping across the UK.
The beef was fabulous but to be honest Christmas Day was a bit strange too. We all came together to eat for a couple of hours at four in the afternoon, but before and after Christian and Chris disappeared into their rooms and Debrah and I spent Christmas together - which was fabulous but a little odd considering the 'hiding' non-participants. It all seemed a bit surreal. In addition, Debrah's mum seems to have gone missing somewhere in Berlin - it's very odd that she didn't phone and hasn't been in touch at all since she left for Germany seven days ago.
We have decided that next year we will just have paying guests.
Thursday, 20 December 2007
All Night Long
It was two in the morning and I'd made it round Paris and out onto the 'autoroute' towards Orleans. I had told Debrah that I'd stop for a couple of hours and get some sleep because she was worried about me having to do the journey, through the night, on my own. The stars were shining as brightly as I'd ever seen them but there was no moon and it was pitch black outside. My driving seat cocoon was illuminated by the faintly glowing dials on the dashboard in front of me, was snugly warm at a steady 21 degrees as set on the aircon temperature dial and was filled by the reassuringly knowledgeable and comforting voice of Andrew Marr recounting the History of Modern Britain, the CD of which I had picked up at the Channel Tunnel terminal to help me pass the solitary hours on the road.
As I pulled into the bright lights and neon glow of the service station I noticed the ice encrusted on the cars on the back of the transporter parked near the entrance. I glanced at the outside temperature gauge - it read minus six. As I turned the engine off I realised that the heating would stop too. In the car alongside were two people with blankets draped over their heads - it was impossible to tell if they were warm and asleep or dead - they looked dead, as if they had been given their last rights and a blanket gently pulled up over their heads to protect their dignity. I put the little blow up pillow against the side of my head, leant into it, closed my eyes and tried to sleep.
Ten minutes later, I was still awake, I was uncomfortable and I was cold. I reached for my scarf and phone and wallet and went inside for a short sharp slug of caffeine and decided I should press on through the night.
The plan had been to drive down to Carcassonne together, sharing the driving. We had a load of stuff to bring over which we couldn't bring on the plane - paint, floor stain, putty, books, vases, ipod docks, wall lights, bed linen and much much more. So much in fact, that by the time I had finished packing the car the front passenger seat and every other space was full - there was no room for a co-driver. As it was, Debrah had been struck down with a flu type ailment over the weekend whilst we were doing a pre Christmas round of parent visits in Kent and West Sussex and, although she was at last showing signs of recovery, she was in no state to drive or sit in a car overnight throughout the length of France. It was decided that she should stay and get another good night's sleep and fly down the next day using the ticket she had booked several months earlier.
So it was that I set out alone mid Tuesday afternoon for the 700 mile journey south.
The first three miles took me an hour and two and half hours into my journey I was still north of the Thames - which is pretty remarkable considering that it must be less than five miles in a straight line. It was London gridlock - accidents on the A12, A13, M25 and North Circular, combined with Christmas and rush hour traffic had bought everything across the city to a virtual standstill and there was nothing that I could do about it. I eventually reached the Channel Tunnel an hour after my booked train had departed and an hour before the next train that I could take - two hours lost already.
I decided to prepare myself for the ordeal ahead. To add to the cheese and ham sandwiches and tomatoes that I had brought with me I added a Ginsters pasty (proper car food), a bag of crisps, a Mars bar, a bag of Haribo Tangfastics (essential on long distance drives), a bottle of Coke and a bottle of water. I had my passport to hand for customs and my credit card for the toll booths and, of course, Andrew Marr to help the miles disappear.
The first two hours to Paris were pretty easy, the next two not so bad. After my aborted sleep, adrenalin took care of the next hour and a half - after that it became a bit of a slog - my stops for coffee and a hit of cold air became more frequent, the traffic thinned to a trickle in both directions and the few people at each service station looked weirder and weirder - maybe I looked a bit weird too, in their eyes.
Just south of Cahors the sky suddenly, instantly, changed from pitch black - dawn was on it's way. By now I was stopping every 45 minutes. I did a quick calculation of time and kilometres and realised I was going to arrive at Toulouse at about 8.30am - brilliant - slap bang in the middle of another rush hour - the last thing I needed now was hatchback hotshots changing lanes at 60 mph without indicating or caring. I slugged back the last of the Coca Cola and chewed up another tangy crocodile.
I had to stop once more after Toulouse and so finally arrived chez Carcassonne sometime around ten in the morning - some seventeen hours after setting out from London.
Ideally, I would have parked the car and gone straight to bed but that didn't happen. Ideally, I would have parked the car without scraping the front nearside wing against the narrowest part of the archway where the electricity meters are housed, but that didn't happen either. I was beyond caring really - but, actually, I'm very pissed off with myself for driving seven hundred miles through the night without falling asleep or hitting anything and then, at the last minute, making such a schoolboy error.
I had missed Debrah's calls, the first checking I was still alive and the second leaving a message for the policeman who was pulling my limp body out of the wreck of our car! - I'm pretty sure that means she cares and loves me. If that's the case, then I'm a very lucky man.
As I pulled into the bright lights and neon glow of the service station I noticed the ice encrusted on the cars on the back of the transporter parked near the entrance. I glanced at the outside temperature gauge - it read minus six. As I turned the engine off I realised that the heating would stop too. In the car alongside were two people with blankets draped over their heads - it was impossible to tell if they were warm and asleep or dead - they looked dead, as if they had been given their last rights and a blanket gently pulled up over their heads to protect their dignity. I put the little blow up pillow against the side of my head, leant into it, closed my eyes and tried to sleep.
Ten minutes later, I was still awake, I was uncomfortable and I was cold. I reached for my scarf and phone and wallet and went inside for a short sharp slug of caffeine and decided I should press on through the night.
The plan had been to drive down to Carcassonne together, sharing the driving. We had a load of stuff to bring over which we couldn't bring on the plane - paint, floor stain, putty, books, vases, ipod docks, wall lights, bed linen and much much more. So much in fact, that by the time I had finished packing the car the front passenger seat and every other space was full - there was no room for a co-driver. As it was, Debrah had been struck down with a flu type ailment over the weekend whilst we were doing a pre Christmas round of parent visits in Kent and West Sussex and, although she was at last showing signs of recovery, she was in no state to drive or sit in a car overnight throughout the length of France. It was decided that she should stay and get another good night's sleep and fly down the next day using the ticket she had booked several months earlier.
So it was that I set out alone mid Tuesday afternoon for the 700 mile journey south.
The first three miles took me an hour and two and half hours into my journey I was still north of the Thames - which is pretty remarkable considering that it must be less than five miles in a straight line. It was London gridlock - accidents on the A12, A13, M25 and North Circular, combined with Christmas and rush hour traffic had bought everything across the city to a virtual standstill and there was nothing that I could do about it. I eventually reached the Channel Tunnel an hour after my booked train had departed and an hour before the next train that I could take - two hours lost already.
I decided to prepare myself for the ordeal ahead. To add to the cheese and ham sandwiches and tomatoes that I had brought with me I added a Ginsters pasty (proper car food), a bag of crisps, a Mars bar, a bag of Haribo Tangfastics (essential on long distance drives), a bottle of Coke and a bottle of water. I had my passport to hand for customs and my credit card for the toll booths and, of course, Andrew Marr to help the miles disappear.
The first two hours to Paris were pretty easy, the next two not so bad. After my aborted sleep, adrenalin took care of the next hour and a half - after that it became a bit of a slog - my stops for coffee and a hit of cold air became more frequent, the traffic thinned to a trickle in both directions and the few people at each service station looked weirder and weirder - maybe I looked a bit weird too, in their eyes.
Just south of Cahors the sky suddenly, instantly, changed from pitch black - dawn was on it's way. By now I was stopping every 45 minutes. I did a quick calculation of time and kilometres and realised I was going to arrive at Toulouse at about 8.30am - brilliant - slap bang in the middle of another rush hour - the last thing I needed now was hatchback hotshots changing lanes at 60 mph without indicating or caring. I slugged back the last of the Coca Cola and chewed up another tangy crocodile.
I had to stop once more after Toulouse and so finally arrived chez Carcassonne sometime around ten in the morning - some seventeen hours after setting out from London.
Ideally, I would have parked the car and gone straight to bed but that didn't happen. Ideally, I would have parked the car without scraping the front nearside wing against the narrowest part of the archway where the electricity meters are housed, but that didn't happen either. I was beyond caring really - but, actually, I'm very pissed off with myself for driving seven hundred miles through the night without falling asleep or hitting anything and then, at the last minute, making such a schoolboy error.
I had missed Debrah's calls, the first checking I was still alive and the second leaving a message for the policeman who was pulling my limp body out of the wreck of our car! - I'm pretty sure that means she cares and loves me. If that's the case, then I'm a very lucky man.
Saturday, 8 December 2007
In the know
The day after Christmas officially started, the sun unexpectedly came out for the Saturday morning market, which put everyone in a jolly, festive mood - everyone except the man in charge of the ice rink, who seemed to be having some trouble with his temperature control and was temporarily in charge of a very shallow swimming pool, which obviously isn't much good to anyone.
It really did feel like Christmas at last - the usual market stalls had spread throughout the streets surrounding the square (because of the ice pool or swimming rink thingy and the Christmas market log huts taking up the food market's usual spots) which meant it was more crowded and busier than is the norm. There were also, for the first time, Christmas trees and bunches of holly and bunches of mistletoe for sale and all the shops were much busier than normal. It seems that when the town says Christmas has officially started, everyone takes it literally and suddenly starts buying presents and decorations and drinking 'vin chaud' and saying 'bonne Noel'
The news that the Irish bar was now owned by an Irishman was greeted with enormous joy by the Saturday lunchtime crew - who had absolutely no idea that Patrick was even interested in the place. It seems that the ex-pat community are the only ones not in the know. Even Gary, who seems to know everyone in town had no idea and it's not very often that I can upstage him with local information. The only Frenchman who didn't seem to know (and indeed didn't believe it for at least ten minutes) was Pierre - that's what happens when you hang around with a bunch of foreigners all the time, you end up being treated like them and not told anything. Interestingly the rumour around the town seemed to be that an American had bought the place - Patrick lives in Chicago most of the time so I guess it was understandable that the US link emerged.
Before I got down to the market I put a first coat of paint on the chimney breast and the inside staircase wall in the studio. It was a fiddly job for a Saturday morning at the end of a long week but the dark colour on these two walls made a big difference to the overall look and feel of the finished studio. I am still very frustrated about running out of the clunch emulsion because, otherwise, it would now be finished apart from the woodwork. After a couple of hours out in the lovely sunshine over lunch, I returned to apply the second coat and to do some last tidying up before I return to London tomorrow.
After the dryest November on record for 60 years, the start of December has seen some rain and then some. It poured down all last night and started again late afternoon today and is still at it as I write this evening. I am not bothered - I feel so tired from the last week of work that I think I could sleep for 24 hours. As I have a plane to catch at 10.30am, that isn't going to happen but I am going straight to bed now. Goodnight
It really did feel like Christmas at last - the usual market stalls had spread throughout the streets surrounding the square (because of the ice pool or swimming rink thingy and the Christmas market log huts taking up the food market's usual spots) which meant it was more crowded and busier than is the norm. There were also, for the first time, Christmas trees and bunches of holly and bunches of mistletoe for sale and all the shops were much busier than normal. It seems that when the town says Christmas has officially started, everyone takes it literally and suddenly starts buying presents and decorations and drinking 'vin chaud' and saying 'bonne Noel'
The news that the Irish bar was now owned by an Irishman was greeted with enormous joy by the Saturday lunchtime crew - who had absolutely no idea that Patrick was even interested in the place. It seems that the ex-pat community are the only ones not in the know. Even Gary, who seems to know everyone in town had no idea and it's not very often that I can upstage him with local information. The only Frenchman who didn't seem to know (and indeed didn't believe it for at least ten minutes) was Pierre - that's what happens when you hang around with a bunch of foreigners all the time, you end up being treated like them and not told anything. Interestingly the rumour around the town seemed to be that an American had bought the place - Patrick lives in Chicago most of the time so I guess it was understandable that the US link emerged.
Before I got down to the market I put a first coat of paint on the chimney breast and the inside staircase wall in the studio. It was a fiddly job for a Saturday morning at the end of a long week but the dark colour on these two walls made a big difference to the overall look and feel of the finished studio. I am still very frustrated about running out of the clunch emulsion because, otherwise, it would now be finished apart from the woodwork. After a couple of hours out in the lovely sunshine over lunch, I returned to apply the second coat and to do some last tidying up before I return to London tomorrow.
After the dryest November on record for 60 years, the start of December has seen some rain and then some. It poured down all last night and started again late afternoon today and is still at it as I write this evening. I am not bothered - I feel so tired from the last week of work that I think I could sleep for 24 hours. As I have a plane to catch at 10.30am, that isn't going to happen but I am going straight to bed now. Goodnight
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