Monday 13 August 2018. Day 74.
My brother Joe's birthday. I sent him an email. Woke up feeling terribly miserable, having slept like a log.
Andrew "get off my farm" Cresswell came back from the vets (cats being sterilised), having chased off a young man who'd pitched his tent on the verge opposite our gateway, which seemed harmless enough to me. He said he was nice to him but told him to be off by midday. Not exactly in the Benedictine spirit, it seemed to me. Jacques confirmed that in the land of liberté, fraternité and egalité, it was generally OK to camp with the owner's permission, if you could find him. It was dark (which was why the young man had pitched his tent - cycling to Vivonne) and he was camping on the verge. And Thomas says we are now on the official pelerin route to Santiago - it's been diverted past our entrance and then across to Coulombiers on my short cut, because that lane has a bridge over the TGV. So we may have more randonneurs in the future. I wonder if we'll be giving them a similarly warm welcome. Andrew was so pleased with himself (or secretly ashamed) that he told the story at least twice again later in the day.
Lovely Scottish style rain.
Fiddled a bit more with Stuart's book (margins and page numbers) and restarted the accounts - do them properly from 1st April, starting with the bank account as I used to do with Findfax.
Went off to meet Mariona from Barcelona after midday meditation. Euromaster still don't have our new tyre (it is August). Bought cheap duvets and bananas at SuperU and then hung around the bus station (buses are cars, I now discover, and the arrivals board may be electronic but it's a complete work of fiction. I'm beginning to realise the French love shiny things, but they're not that bothered about whether they actually work or not - like the enormous stopped wall clock in SuperU which has been showing the wrong time ever since I got here.)
Mariona smiley and pretty and quite perky considering she'd been on a bus since 10 last night. Got her home and had a late lunch and then I went for a lovely long walk beating the bounds and counting the sanglier entrances and exits - an average of one every 5 metres - very neat holes about 2 foot in diameter punched through or under the chicken wire. Found the best way to Bam Bam and the reservoir (it's really very close to the Abbey) and discovered two barrows, parallel, aligned east west, about 7 or 8 metres long and a similar distance apart, in the wood on the ridge above the potager, looking down on the Abbaye. Also a number of what looked like ditches and boundary marks in the same wood. No sight of sanglier or deer, but a lovely hare on the big field north of Chanteloup. Apparently Max's grandfather owns the pretty water garden just to the south of the boundary, and that's where Max stays. His parents are in Singapore and he's at Barcelona University - so that's our 3rd Barca student. Walked back along the last bit of road in front of La Cadoue to check out the overgrown gate in the wood and see if a way could be made for La Cadoue guests to walk straight to the Chapel - just need to open up the gate.It's all wired together and rotten, but not even brambles in front or behind it. Ending up meditating in the big field, back to a hay bale, looking down on the Chapel. A lovely walk.
Delyth has made us shoulder of lamb for supper. Moaning as usual about the oven, frightful fuss over slow cooking it (you need a slow cooker, doh), I could have made a much better job of it. Thomas has spread my redcurrant jelly on his breakfast toast and the mint jelly has disappeared. No gravy. A smidgin of Colmans. I did the washing up. I was going to watch rubbish on Netflix, but it really does appear to be all rubbish (or they think that's what I want to watch). Cancel my sub.
Tuesday 14 August. Day 75.
Cycled to Vivonne. Coffee at Le Cigalon. Fixed the pump. Took Patty to the gare to catch her bus to Nantes and plane to Barcelona.
Wednesday 15 August. Day 76. Andrew's 56th birthday. The Feast of the Assumption.
email to Belle."Just listened to your summer audio. Amen to all of that. I started typing this on my silly smartphone, and hit a wrong key, and it disappeared. The winky said it had saved it as a draft but if it has, I can't find it anywhere. Anyway, what struck me most about the various 'what's good about a sober summer' clips were the ones who were glad to be able to remember. I was thinking last night what were the worst experiences of my drinking life and both of them were complete loss of memory. Once, for nearly 24 hours, when I was on my own having a row with my ex- (who obviously was only there in my head) - the neighbours thought I was being murdered and summoned the police, who interviewed me, and then came back the next morning to see if I was OK. Complete blank. I only found out about it because my brother's builder told him it had happened. And then at my son's wedding where the last thing I remember is getting up to give a speech for him and his bride (someone recorded it on video and it was rather good) at about midday, and then the next was leaving the next day at 10am. Now I remember everything. And if I don't, it's not because I've had a blackout, but because there's so much to remember. And my blog is quite a useful reminder. Thank you for that.
A glorious morning. Up with the dawn to meditate, then off to the boulangerie on my bicycle to get croissants and pain chocs, across country on a farm track, two deer in the fields, wondering what on earth I was, just looking back at me. I thought as I cycled up this very pretty village street, parisiens sticking up out of my panniers, me in my shorts, what a picture I made, a sort of joke, a postcard. Only it was real, and I was in it, and appreciating it all for what it was, not off somewhere in my head, or nursing a hangover.
and now to work. X Da"
My brother Joe's birthday. I sent him an email. Woke up feeling terribly miserable, having slept like a log.
Andrew "get off my farm" Cresswell came back from the vets (cats being sterilised), having chased off a young man who'd pitched his tent on the verge opposite our gateway, which seemed harmless enough to me. He said he was nice to him but told him to be off by midday. Not exactly in the Benedictine spirit, it seemed to me. Jacques confirmed that in the land of liberté, fraternité and egalité, it was generally OK to camp with the owner's permission, if you could find him. It was dark (which was why the young man had pitched his tent - cycling to Vivonne) and he was camping on the verge. And Thomas says we are now on the official pelerin route to Santiago - it's been diverted past our entrance and then across to Coulombiers on my short cut, because that lane has a bridge over the TGV. So we may have more randonneurs in the future. I wonder if we'll be giving them a similarly warm welcome. Andrew was so pleased with himself (or secretly ashamed) that he told the story at least twice again later in the day.
Lovely Scottish style rain.
Fiddled a bit more with Stuart's book (margins and page numbers) and restarted the accounts - do them properly from 1st April, starting with the bank account as I used to do with Findfax.
Went off to meet Mariona from Barcelona after midday meditation. Euromaster still don't have our new tyre (it is August). Bought cheap duvets and bananas at SuperU and then hung around the bus station (buses are cars, I now discover, and the arrivals board may be electronic but it's a complete work of fiction. I'm beginning to realise the French love shiny things, but they're not that bothered about whether they actually work or not - like the enormous stopped wall clock in SuperU which has been showing the wrong time ever since I got here.)
Mariona smiley and pretty and quite perky considering she'd been on a bus since 10 last night. Got her home and had a late lunch and then I went for a lovely long walk beating the bounds and counting the sanglier entrances and exits - an average of one every 5 metres - very neat holes about 2 foot in diameter punched through or under the chicken wire. Found the best way to Bam Bam and the reservoir (it's really very close to the Abbey) and discovered two barrows, parallel, aligned east west, about 7 or 8 metres long and a similar distance apart, in the wood on the ridge above the potager, looking down on the Abbaye. Also a number of what looked like ditches and boundary marks in the same wood. No sight of sanglier or deer, but a lovely hare on the big field north of Chanteloup. Apparently Max's grandfather owns the pretty water garden just to the south of the boundary, and that's where Max stays. His parents are in Singapore and he's at Barcelona University - so that's our 3rd Barca student. Walked back along the last bit of road in front of La Cadoue to check out the overgrown gate in the wood and see if a way could be made for La Cadoue guests to walk straight to the Chapel - just need to open up the gate.It's all wired together and rotten, but not even brambles in front or behind it. Ending up meditating in the big field, back to a hay bale, looking down on the Chapel. A lovely walk.
Delyth has made us shoulder of lamb for supper. Moaning as usual about the oven, frightful fuss over slow cooking it (you need a slow cooker, doh), I could have made a much better job of it. Thomas has spread my redcurrant jelly on his breakfast toast and the mint jelly has disappeared. No gravy. A smidgin of Colmans. I did the washing up. I was going to watch rubbish on Netflix, but it really does appear to be all rubbish (or they think that's what I want to watch). Cancel my sub.
Tuesday 14 August. Day 75.
Cycled to Vivonne. Coffee at Le Cigalon. Fixed the pump. Took Patty to the gare to catch her bus to Nantes and plane to Barcelona.
Wednesday 15 August. Day 76. Andrew's 56th birthday. The Feast of the Assumption.
email to Belle."Just listened to your summer audio. Amen to all of that. I started typing this on my silly smartphone, and hit a wrong key, and it disappeared. The winky said it had saved it as a draft but if it has, I can't find it anywhere. Anyway, what struck me most about the various 'what's good about a sober summer' clips were the ones who were glad to be able to remember. I was thinking last night what were the worst experiences of my drinking life and both of them were complete loss of memory. Once, for nearly 24 hours, when I was on my own having a row with my ex- (who obviously was only there in my head) - the neighbours thought I was being murdered and summoned the police, who interviewed me, and then came back the next morning to see if I was OK. Complete blank. I only found out about it because my brother's builder told him it had happened. And then at my son's wedding where the last thing I remember is getting up to give a speech for him and his bride (someone recorded it on video and it was rather good) at about midday, and then the next was leaving the next day at 10am. Now I remember everything. And if I don't, it's not because I've had a blackout, but because there's so much to remember. And my blog is quite a useful reminder. Thank you for that.
A glorious morning. Up with the dawn to meditate, then off to the boulangerie on my bicycle to get croissants and pain chocs, across country on a farm track, two deer in the fields, wondering what on earth I was, just looking back at me. I thought as I cycled up this very pretty village street, parisiens sticking up out of my panniers, me in my shorts, what a picture I made, a sort of joke, a postcard. Only it was real, and I was in it, and appreciating it all for what it was, not off somewhere in my head, or nursing a hangover.
and now to work. X Da"
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| mists and mellow fruitfulness at dawn |
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| Jacques and Bertie enjoying petit dejeuner |
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| Fresh fetched croissants for birthday boy |
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| Glory be to God for dappled things— For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; |
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| The Spring at Bonnevaux, by Rebecca |
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