yesterdays dawn

Beautiful day after a cold night - seems to be the pattern now. Enjoyed it thoroughly. Above is a bit of christmas decoration. More to follow, no doubt.

Turns out that Kierans 'tash is part of a movement - See https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Movember

Off to the cafe to see if anyone's about :)

changes

Only been in bed for three days and I wake to find the town transformed. Christmas decorations are in the street, some of them not the ones from previous years; this curious artwork has emerged near Roy and Jo's; and its really really cold. Frost on the tiles, ice on the puddles.  Given it ain't December yet, this is ominous.

LATER; it brightened up - here's the little Thursday market, dinky and a good source of organic fruit and vedg. Currently steeping little limes for a cordial.

and in the cafe Relais Occitan who should I find but Ann and Kieran. Kieran, as can be seen below, is sporting a splendid facial caterpillar. It seems that this occurs every November, in memory of a friend who lost his life to prostate cancer; he goes a -fundraising this month. Prepare for a whipround, folks.

Much talk of the virus that has hit me - it has been experienced by most. Ole-Bendick says he shook it off after 36 hours of near-death but then, he added,  he 'is not quite human.' Yerrrssss. Quite.

achoo

Been flattened by a cold for the last couple of days but seem to be recovering. Stopped coughing up glass, anyway.
So, nothing to report.





All that's happened is the wasps continue to hatch in the studio, poor misguided things. The heating comes on, their nest wakes up and they head for the skylight and the great outdoors. I open the windows to let them out - and catch a cold.
There do seem to be an infinite number and I can't find the nest, somewhere in one of the beams or under the plasterboard. Impossible to  know without dismantling the studio. Serious advice is to lop in an insect bomb and kill the lot, which I'm loathe to do. Despite landing in my hair and on my clothes and down my neck, not one has stung me. And those insect bombs are seriously toxic - I'd have to leave for a fortnight and take the household with me.
.
Any advice??

last night - and todays news

Richard and Eva being back from their wanderings, we arranged to meet at l'Authentique. Suspecting it may not be open - erratic hours, plus Armistace Day - I prepared a back-up, a fougasse baked with chorizo by Victor in the Rue Victor Hugo. Lots of mustard and a bottle of red; nice.

The Authentique was closed and the dog stole the fougasse.

Mercifully TyRex was open and welcoming and we had a decent meal there (though their prices have escalated.)

Todays' news, gleaned from several points in the market; Nightingale has had her baby, prematurely but well. Hurrah!! She's called Ailhe, pronounced like halloween without the H or the N. All the best to Night - congratulations and much joy :)

Only other news is that Richard Sedgewick is facilitating a course on forging. That's blacksmithery, BTW, not doing other peoples paintings. Details to follow.

Armistice day

A miserable grey day, as befits the date - in the eleventh hour of the eleventh day in the eleventh month we shall remember them. One of the reasons I can't bear to go to the towns' ceremony is that it makes me cry. The war monument is large and  crowded with local names. You have to lack imagination to remain unmoved.

Took a coffee in the Cafe du Pont instead, where a couple of the old boys did a few chords from La Marseillaises.

The other reason I get upset is because of my familiarity of the poem In Parenthesis by the great painter/writer David Jones. Tempted to write out a chunk but that's not the job of the blog. Can't resist this little line though - after his fellow-warriors have been killed and  Jones' himself lies wounded, he abandons his rifle, understood through his training to have been his wife and family ;

                       But leave it - under the oak.

                       Leave it for a Cook's tourist to the Devastated Areas and crawl

                       as far as you can and wait for the bearers.

He was always prescient! Tourism of the Devastated Areas is big business now.

Wet day in November...

 Its wet, Bobs away, there are wasps hatching in the studio; nothing to do but play with the parrots.

Puerto

Tango

Rico

back in the flow

 Got back last night - BTW, discovering something worse than Stanstead airport: to whit, Manchester. Don't go there.

Here's Fleche, the dog of the Relais Occitan, who lives mostly on the biscuits they give you with coffee.
He has got fatter since I've been gone.

Then there was breakfast with Ole-Bendik whom I was relying on for the gossip. He tells me that the weekends' drawing fest was marred by Lotto, held in the hall of the centre cultural underneath the large and light filled room used by artists for drawing from the life. Lotto is like bingo only louder, harder fought on account of the prizes are sides of ham and so forth - food dear to the hearts of the French. A big part of French rural culture.
So probably not a fine opportunity for Aileen to try and wrestle the microphone from the caller...
insults were hurled and repercussions linger.

Thence to lunch: Maggie Hailer with her eldest (whose name I can't spell) did me and Bob the honour of joining us. Maggie and her husband Adrian lived at Ramunichoux for many years until Adrians' illness overtook him, alas. We hope that it might be possible for him to visit us in the summer - he is much loved.

The source of my other news is Isobelle at the 8 a 8. She tells sad tales. The Abbe Bigot, Catholic priest to the town since the expulsion from Eden, has died. Not unexpected given his age (he was 87), though sad another link with the past is lost.

On the same day Francis Marty died. He had been wrestling lung cancer for a while - looking successful too, until quite recently. Condolences to Helene and their children. Hard to bear such a loss and at such a young age - he was 57. All who know Helene will send their love.

That's the last time I go away!