Archive for September, 2008

Liberté

Grandad September 30th, 2008

The town of Sarlat in France is an amazing place.

It is a very old town, and what makes it so special is the way it is preserved.

It is a town for walking, as it is a warren of narrow streets meandering their way around, crossing each other and providing endless vistas of beautiful buildings and quirky corners.

It is one of those magical places where each corner gives no hint of the wonder it conceals.

The narrow laneways and streets all flow together at one point to provide a town square.

Herself, of course, had planned our visit to coincide with market day. This occurs twice a week, and the town fills to capacity. Parking is a nightmare and the narrow streets are filled to capacity with the crowds. The square is the main focus of the market, and this is filled with bright stalls, and an amazing number of shoppers and sightseers.

No sooner had we arrived in the old part of town, than Herself disappeared. I don’t know where she went, but it was probably a shop. This was the chance of a lifetime. She would never find me in the crowds or the catacombs of the back streets.

At last.

I was free.

I spent a happy couple of hours taking photographs. I cad a couple of coffees and treated myself to lunch. I planned my solo journey home to Ireland, and thought up a very convincing story for our K8. It was a lovely day, and the crowds were friendly.

I found the biggest fuck-off church doors in the world!

Yup! Those mothers are made of steel!!

I have never bothered doing the lottery, because I know the odds. The chances of wining are just too small.

The chances of meeting Herself were equally small, but the Gods conspired. I trapped her in a photo. She trapped me in a nag.

My dreams of freedom faded, but I suppose all good things must come to an end.

One consolation though, was that she had made a fortune from lifting wallets and purses.

Ingratitude

Grandad September 29th, 2008

I went for a couple or three pints last night.

It was a pleasant evening.

At closing time, I was finishing my pint, and Pullit was going around collecting glasses when he found a bag under the bench in the corner.

We examined it, and found that some tourist from Canada had left it. We knew they were Canadian, because all their stuff was there. There were passports and other documents, money and their return tickets. They had even left their credit cards. Some people are very careless.

We pondered this for a while, over another pint. Normally, we would divide the spoils and leave it at that, but we both agreed that Canadians as a species are harmless enough, so we decided over another pint to do the decent thing.

This morning, I nipped down to the post office and posted the whole lot back to their home address. I took enough of their cash to pay for it, so I wasn’t out of pocket.

I’m proud of myself. I felt good. I had done a Very Good Deed.

I just had a phone call from Pullit.

The Canadians have just turned up and are furious that the bag has gone back to Canada.

I can’t get over the ingratitude of it.

You wonder why we shoot tourists here?

A bridge too far

Grandad September 28th, 2008

There used to be a railway between the village we stayed in in France, and the town about five kilometres away.

I know this because there is the remains of a station in the village, and there is a magnificent five arch stone bridge that spans a valley.

railway_bridge

One day, I was driving into town and was following Roger’s instructions on the SatNav to the letter. We were driving down a valley when I first saw the railway bridge. It’s a beautiful structure. I was driving under it, when to my surprise, Roger told me to turn right. For once, I ignored him, as I would have smashed into one of the arches. There was no road there - just the railway a long way over my head. I put it down to Roger’s quirky sense of humour and he soon got over it and brought me into town.

One night, I was coming back from town, and had decided to find some alternative routes. Roger brought me through some back streets and up some hills, when suddenly I found myself on this stretch of road I hadn’t encountered before. It was absolutely straight and level and ran for about three kilometres. It was lovely to drive on, and I got up a good speed.

I was pissing along, when the road narrowed slightly and low walls appeared on each side. Roger demanded that I turn left. Why? There was no turning, just walls.

I stopped the car out of curiosity, and got out. It transpired that the French in their infinite wisdom had converted the old railway line into a road. They are too sensible to fart around with light rails systems or anything like that. They just slap down a layer of tar and voila - a road. I found myself standing on top of the stone railway bridge, that was now a road bridge. Way down below me, on the bottom of the valley floor was the other road that I had driven in the past. So Roger wanted me to turn left onto that road? The little shit! Does he not know that driving a car off a bridge sixty feet high is going to cause some damage?

He has tried these tricks before.

He keeps trying to get me to drive the wrong way down one way streets.

Once or twice he has tried dumping me into a river,

But driving me off a bridge is going too far.

About sixty feet too far.

Guinea Pigs

Grandad September 27th, 2008

According to Wikipedia…..

Guinea Pig

The Guinea pig (also commonly called the cavy after its scientific name) is a species of rodent belonging to the family Caviidae and the genus Cavia. Despite their common name, these animals are not pigs, nor do they come from Guinea. They are native to the Andes, and while now extinct in the wild, they are closely related to several species that are commonly found in the grassy plains and plateaus of the region.

WRONG

The Guinea pig (also commonly called the cavy after its scientific name) is a species of rodent belonging to the family Caviidae and the genus Cavia. Despite their common name, these animals are not pigs, nor do they come from Guinea. They are native to the Andes, and ~~while now extinct in the wild,~~ they are closely related to several species that are commonly found in the grassy plains and plateaus of the region. They are also to be found in the mountains of Ireland, in the area known as Head Rambles Manor.

I don’t know where the little bugger came from but he is living in my hedge.

So far, he hasn’t bothered me [or Sandy]. He has, however devoured two of the neighbour’s children and an oil-delivery man. It would also explain the mysterious disappearance of several cattle from the neighbourhood, and how a local vegetable farm lost its entire crop in one night.

I don’t mind him living there, though he never asked for permission first. I don’t like squatters on my land.

He has also taken to greeting me when I come in the gate which is cute in a funny sort of way.

I have called him McCain, because he runs and hides whenever there is trouble.

He’s a nasty little bollix.

A topsy turvey world

Grandad September 26th, 2008

[written while I was still over there]

One of the things that strikes me about France is their propensity for doing things back to front.

The most obvious and immediate example of this upon driving off the ferry is their habit of driving on the wrong side of the road.

I have no problems with this and frequently do it myself in Ireland, especially after a belly full of Guinness. I don’t know whether it is the wine or not, but they all seem to drive on the wrong side here. My one fear is that I will come across someone sober who will actually be driving on the right side, but so far, we have been lucky.

Another aspect of French life is their habit of putting light switches in upside-down. We all know that you press the switch down to turn a light on, but here they have to be pressed up. They surely must find this irritating. I know I do. So in the interest of European solidarity and cordiality and all that crap, I have spent the last few days rewiring the house. As part of this job, I am replacing all their sockets, as the house we are in has only old fashioned two pin sockets, and Herself is bitching that her hair dryer doesn’t plug in. It is only right that everyone conforms to a standard, so now our house has beautiful three pin sockets, and all the switches have to be pressed down to be turned on.

As part of the rewiring project, I couldn’t help but notice that they had two sockets in the bathroom.

Everyone knows that live sockets in a bathroom are extremely dangerous, and in fact are illegal.

I therefore did the owners of the place a service and removed the sockets, and all the associated wiring. I’m sure the owners will be delighted when they are not arrested if their building is ever inspected. The fact that their gable wall fell down during the renovations is surely a small price to pay for not going to gaol for a lengthy period.

Another thing that seems to be upside down is their Interweb.

I have tried connecting quite a few times, but never get anywhere. Each time, I have asked for assistance, and they look at my screen and say "oh! I have never seen that before!" or words to that effect. It is annoying to say the least, not least because my laptop tells me that if I could connect, I would have speeds of 16Mb which is a hell of a lot faster than I can get at home. I could view my nude pictures of Paris Hilton five times faster!

Writing this, an idea has occurred to me….

Maybe the next time I try to connect, I should hold my laptop upside down?

Nearly too good to eat

Grandad September 25th, 2008

We decided to go for a drive, because it seemed like a good idea at the time.

There is a place called Carlux which intrigued me, partly because of its location [in a valley] and partly because it sounded like a car wash. We decided to head there.

It is a lovely little village, and in an area where most of the villages are lovely, that is something.

I stopped the car to take a couple of photographs and herself started muttering about coffee. She had spied a place just up from where the car was parked.

I was dispatched to see if it was, in fact the kind of place that sold coffee, and it wasn’t. That didn’t make a squat of difference to herself, and she decided to explore for herself.

We walked up to it and found it was a barn that had been converted into a shop selling local produce, from cakes and wine to carved stone and paintings. I pottered, she bought.

At the back of the barn was a small restaurant and Herself demanded lunch. I wasn’t in the least bit hungry, but I wasn’t going to start a fight that early in the day.

One thing I have to explain about the Peregord region of France - if you don’t like omelettes or duck, you are fucked. If you are a duck then you are thrice fucked, as they don’t seem to eat anything else.

We looked at the menu and Herself decided on omelette and I decided on duck [confit de canard. What else?]. We sat ourselves out on a little terrace which literally overhung the valley. We ordered and waited.

When the meals arrived, I can honestly say I was at a loss for words. I am not a ‘wow’ person, but this was a ‘wow’ moment.

I have never seen such a colourful or appetising plate in my life.

carlux1

The menu had blandly stated "Confit de canard avec crepes et pomme de terre Sarladaise". This was a bit like describing Constable’s Haywain as "a bit of a painting".

Along with the duck, which was beautifully cooked and very tender, I got the promised mushrooms and Sarlat potatoes which are potatoes thinly sliced, deep fat fried and then sprinkled with crushed garlic. I also got a load of salad which was beautifully dressed along with a lot of fruit, like melon, grapes and raspberries which were garnished in a delicious syrup. The whole thing was topped off by a flower!

It was possibly the nicest meal I have ever had, bar none. I ate every scrap, but Herself stopped me eating the duck bones and the flower.

It was truly an experience. Even the building itself was fantastic.

carlux3