30/08/2007 by Brigid.

I am reminded that I have not posted anything recently. Apart from our neighbour, Benoit, doing a “midnight-flit” with his family and all his belongings in an elderly EDF (Eléctricité De France) van at 5am this morning, I struggled to think of anything that comes into the “interesting” category this week. Having just finished the latest, and last, of the Harry Potter books, John has taken to calling the cats Harry and Voldemort. My literary moments tend to be more of the emptying-the-litter-tray variety at the moment.

Have you ever wondered why most people do not make a habit of walking cats on leads? Probably for the same reason that Guide Dogs for the Blind employ DOGS not cats. (Though it has to be said the Goodies made a stab at it in their 70’s TV show.)

However, in France “lap dogs” are called lap dogs for a purpose. They sit on your lap and distract you from lighting your cigarette on the autoroute while you are driving. These dogs, apparently, never suffer the indignity of walking on a lead. No. They are carried. Either in peoples arms, or a sufficiently large handbag or shopping basket, or, for the extremely spoilt, a specially designed, padded, usually tartan, doggy shoulder bag into which the doggy is zipped with only its head protruding as a practical fashion accessory. This has gone way beyond the culture of the pooper-scooper! Stop at any autoroute service station, and you will see CATS being exercised on leads.

Mind you, Foggy and Tigger are still very young (4.5 months) and we do live on a relatively busy street. The fire service, “pompiers”, also provide France’s emergency rescue and paramedic service, and many small towns like Montréjeau employ volunteers. Ours are summoned by a WW2 air-raid siren. Within minutes of the siren sounding, two or three of the volunteer pompiers use our street as a short-cut to the fire station. Neither of us are convinced that they would slow down or stop for a wayward kitten in the road. So John and I have decided that, for now anyway, our cats will be “leons de sofa”, as the Spanish, rather charmingly, call house cats.

We bought each of the cats a harness and lead while back in the UK. But our initial forays into the BIG WIDE WORLD were not an immediate success. Our first walk (for a coffee at the nearest cafe) took half an hour, with the cats running in opposite directions, sitting down in the street or trying to hide. The walk home took even longer, largely due to bumping into a lovely, slightly bohemian, woman who “loves anyone who loves animals, especially Les Anglaises”. A few days later Tig and Foggy seemed ready for another expedition. A mid-afternoon walk to the Post Office nearly did for Tigger. Whoever said cats don’t pant has never walked an over-excited kitten in temperatures around the mid 30’s (35C/95F). I had to give him a cold blanket bath when we got home!

Now we just take them out in the evening, when it’s dark … and there are few people around to share our embarrassment. Tonight’s sortie is a typical example.

The door opens and Tigger and Foggy leap into the unkempt flower container outside the uninhabited house next to us in the Impasse De L’Ecole. Foggy then has a good munch of any remaining dry stalks to help his digestion, and Tigger tries to climb a small sapling that has seeded itself outside the bathroom window.

The streetlight in the Impasse flickers, throwing new and exciting shadows around the gates to the old school house, now used by social services and the municipal police. One or other of the cats bounds off in the direction of a fallen leaf … John or I get a brief and comical glimpse of the other being dragged off in the direction of the tree in the centre of the courtyard. We have no directional control …

The cats attempt to climb said tree. Quite efficiently at first … until they realise that they don’t know how to get down. (Though a tug of the lead at this point usually sorts out that particular problem.) Then they’re off again, the Guide Cats. John and I are led, at the run, to the junction with Rue Saint Barthélémy. Both cats want to explore the house opposite, which is currently being rebuilt. From their daytime window sill vantage point, they have been fascinated by Giuseppe and his fellow builders operating the crane each day, and they want to see how work is progressing.

Disuaded from crawling under the fence, they spring off down the road, until stopped in their tracks by an unfamiliar smell or noise. Seizing the advantage, John points #1 cat in the direction of home, and (with the minimum of other diversions) we all arrive on our doorstep unharmed and looking forward to our next nocturnal expedition.

Posted in Uncategorised | Print | No Comments »

23/08/2007 by Brigid.

Tigger and Foggy were delighted to see us when we arrived home on Tuesday evening. Bill had been over to feed them and reload the cat feeder on Monday. He warned us that we might need to replace some of our undies, as our little cherubs had been keeping themselves amused by rearranging the washing. But apart from that, and an efficiently shredded box of tissues, they were in good spirits and did not appear to have suffered unduly through our absence. True, we did feel a little guilty that we would only be around for 24 hours or so before we had to return to the UK with the van. We unloaded the contents on Wednesday, carefully storing anything that might damage (or be damaged by) the cats behind closed doors.

Although we had left most of our furniture behind, we had removed a few essential items that we didn’t want the tenants to use: a couple of beds, some dining chairs, a chest of drawers, and my pots and pans from the kitchen. So, on Thursday morning, we left the house early in order to stop at Ikea in Toulouse to replace them. Back in London, we spent Friday afternoon and evening, until well after midnight, assembling flat pack furniture.

On Saturday morning we had an early appointment down in Farnborough, and I had to collect my bike from BMW in Battersea. Then we needed to finish the cleaning in time for Chard’s agent to do the inventory some time late afternoon, when we also hoped to meet the tenants. The fly in the ointment was that one of the tenants had a wedding to go to in the afternoon and so asked if they could come round at midday.
It shouldn’t have been a problem. We didn’t know how long the 70-mile return trip to Farnborough might take, but Battersea is not far from Fulham, so collecting the bike wouldn’t take long.

Indeed, all was going well until we got to BMW. After a brief remonstration with the service department over the amount charged to rectify the electrical problem, I paid up and my bike was wheeled out to me. I put the key in the ignition and ….. nothing happened. I mean nothing. I couldn’t even turn the key!

I looked at the keys. They were definitely mine. I recognised the keys to our cable locks, and the key to my back box worked fine. Feeling a little foolish, I went back in to the service reception. “I can’t start my bike”, I said. “Oh”, said the guy behind the desk.

Having established that I had the right set of keys, the technician agreed that there was something amiss with the steering lock, and pushed the bike back into the workshop to investigate. It was now 11.45am, and the tenants were due at midday. “Quick. Go home now!”, I said to John. He hesitated. “What if they can’t get the bike going. I’ll have to come back and get you.” “It’ll be fine. Go now. They’ll lend me a bike if they can’t get mine going”, I assured him.

Did I mention that we had travelled back to England with only one set of house keys?

A few minutes later, Chards rang me on my mobile phone to check whether it was still ok for us to meet the tenants. “Fine”, I said, briefly explaining the issue with the bike, but that John would be there to let them in. As I hung up, my phone beeped to tell me I had a message. John had arrived home with no keys and no phone, and had had to ring me from a call box at the end of the road. I couldn’t contact him, so I rang Chards back … just as Max, the technician, appeared carrying a large section of the steering lock from my bike. “We have had to drill the bolts out”, he said. “Arghhh!”, I said. “What?”, said the estate agent.

I explained that I had sent John back to the house with no keys and that my bike was now essentially unridable until the steering lock had been replaced. Knowing that we were due to leave for France on Monday, Max promised that the bike would be fixed by the time the workshop closed at 1pm. In the meantime he would lend me a bike to get back to the house. “Do you have your driving licence for the insurance company?” “No!”

Luckily, a quick call to the DVLA in Swansea was all that was required to get me on the road. The tenants had got lost on the way from the tube station. So, as I pulled up at the house, John was just finishing the introductions and apologising for not being able to let them in.

The next blow was that Chards had booked the inventory for 3pm, rather than ‘late afternoon’ as requested. By this time I was almost speechless. As we had had no time to finish the cleaning as planned, they wisely agreed to rebook for Monday instead. In the event, this was just as well, as were still cleaning at 9pm.

On Sunday we delivered odd bits of furniture, tools and decorating materials, that had accidentally got left out of the removals van the previous weekend, to John’s mum, and then returned the van. In spite of the stuff we had now deposited in Betty’s garden shed, we were quite shocked at the amount that remained to load onto the bikes for our final return trip to France. By the time we were ready to leave, I don’t think we had room for an extra sock!

We caught the 12:15 ferry from Dover on Monday, and stopped at Chartres overnight. The following morning we took time out to see the beautiful 12th Century Cathedral of Notre Dame de Chartres, declared a world heritage site in 1979. It really is quite stunning, and well worth a visit. We arrived home in Montréjeau at about 8pm on Tuesday, August 21st.

Posted in Uncategorised | Print | No Comments »

15/08/2007 by Brigid.

With our car in France, and having left my bike with the dealers, any heavy shopping / collections would have to go on John’s Triumph. Thus, on Saturday morning, our neighbours were amused to see John and me riding around with a hired carpet cleaner on the pillion seat and a dozen or so flat-packed packing cases. Believe me, there is nothing that one cannot strap to a motorcycle pillion seat, providing one has enough bungees. Ask any Thai!

Starting with the kitchen, we cleaned as we packed but, by Sunday evening, we had to admit defeat having run out of energy and packing cases. John had located another suitable hire van, so we were up and out before 8am the following morning to collect it and return via the nice Boxes and Bubble people in Fulham Palace Road for more packing cases.

Always keen to save a few bob, John found that Ealing Car Hire were around £50 cheaper than the tried and trusted D&D Hire at White City. The price seemed so good that he double-checked all the details before booking: second driver, European breakdown cover, unlimited mileage, etc. However, when we turned up to collect the van, the story was a little different. The second driver would cost us £11 per day. OK, that could have been a misunderstanding. But European breakdown cover … sorry mate, you have to arrange your own. Then there is the £1,000 deposit. How will you be paying? “Lying, cheating, devious, b*st*ards”, were John’s exact words as soon as we were out of earshot! Instead we jumped back on the Triumph and headed over to White City.

We hadn’t booked, but D&D sorted us out quickly. For the previously quoted price of £600 + VAT and a deposit of £100, a van was quickly checked over and cleaned for us, and we were on the road. Full European breakdown assistance was arranged via the AA and a temporary membership number texted through to us within the hour.

It took all day to complete the packing and load the van. Despite leaving behind the majority of the larger items of furniture for our tenants, we were struggling to squeeze everything in. No chance whatsoever of stopping off via Ikea in Croydon to buy the units for our new kitchen in France.

We caught the 22:15 ferry from Dover and, as Freight, dined royally for half-price in the commercial drivers’ restaurant. It was after midnight by the time we arrived in Calais so we checked into an Etap motel on the outskirts of the Cité de Europe. Much better than the Première Classe.

I am not sure how amused our American friends would be by these French motels. But if any of you ever find yourselves in need of a cheap bed for the night to break a long car journey, you should try one of them just for the experience. Avoid Formule 1, which seems mainly frequented by chain-smoking travelling salesmen and has rather scary, self-cleaning, shared toilets and showers; and Première Classe which, as I have said before, is anything but. Otherwise, the facilities will be similar: a double bed with a single bunk above, a few hangers (which may or may not be attached to part of the bunk frame), a small TV, desk and chair, and a compact en-suite shower and toilet cabine; all slightly reminiscent of a ferry cabin. Watch your head when getting in and out of bed as thwacking your forehead on the upper bunk can spoil a night’s sleep.

Normally, no pre-booking is required and you can check in at any hour, using a credit card and key pad situated near the door. Work through the options: how many rooms, how many people, how many nights, how many breakfasts, etc.; and a ticket will be issued giving you an access code for the front door and for your room. It is all a bit spartan and impersonal, but by 1am or 2am after a long drive, one is usually past caring.

Posted in Uncategorised | Print | No Comments »

09/08/2007 by Brigid.

Evidently, the spring clean was exactly what was required. No sooner had I arrived home in Montréjeau, than Chards rang us with an offer on the house in London. In truth, the offer was far less than we had initially been asking. However, we had already concluded that Marsh & Parsons had done us no favours by wildly over-valuing the rental potential of the house and, frankly, lying about its likely appeal to corporate tenants. With a little give and take on all sides (including a reduced fee from Chards), the contracts were signed and all that remained for us was to hire a van as soon as possible and remove the remainder of our belongings to France.

So, less than a week after I had made my epic solo motorcycle trip across France, JR and I armed the automatic cat feeder, patted Tigger and Foggy on the head, and headed back, two-up on the BMW, to Blighty.

When making the 10 hour trip by car, John and I always share the driving, so it seemed appropriate that we would also share the riding. John took the first stint. While I naturally prefer to ride my own bike, rather than take the pillion seat, I spared John the indignity of being spotted by any of our new friends or neighbours “riding bitch” out of town. After Cahors, we changed over at regular two hourly intervals and the ride was fairly uneventful. It has to be said though, that motorcycle seats are not generally designed to accommodate a 6′1″, 14.5 stone (203lb) passenger. Getting off the bike at a service station in Limoges, JR caught one of his size 9’s on a fully extended side pannier, and stumbled to the ground - nearly taking me and the bike with him!

We broke the journey overnight at the appalling ‘Première Classe” motel in Vierzon, just south of Orléans: an ill-lit room that smelt of stale smoke, a non-functional lock, and a shower that looked as if it was designed to perform an enema. ‘Nuff said.

An administrative error on our part (we forgot what ferry we were booked on), and heavy traffic in Peckham, meant that we arrived in London later than expected. Nevertheless, JR decided we should stop in on the way to have a look at the 3.5 ton Luton van we had booked from the “Best Hire” outfit in Battersea. Just as well. Seeing the fleet of vehicles, one could see why they were so cheap. Ours was covered in graffiti. Nice. We made our excuses and left.

Having done two 700+ mile trips in less than 7 days, I decided that my bike could definitely do with a service. It was due an annual check up and a tyre change, and the intermittent power supply to the CB and Autocom was still a major irritation. JR (quite rightly) pointed out that I could probably save a great deal of money by waiting to do the service in France, but my mind was made up. In any event, the bike would be in safe hands while John and I made our return trip in the removals van. The bike’s computer, Hal, clearly agreed as the speedo and brake servo both failed inexplicably en-route to the dealers!

Posted in Uncategorised | Print | No Comments »

05/08/2007 by Brigid.

With all the talk of heavy rain and flooding in the UK, JR and I were beginning to get twitchy about the likely state of the house in London. It has not yet been let and, with estate agents and prospective tenants trooping in and out, we feared the worst. There were probably leaves and dirt all over the carpet, and the amount of junk mail that could have accumulated over 4 weeks didn’t bear thinking about. There was only one thing for it. One of us would have to go back and clean. Guess which one.

We planned an overnight trip: outbound on a QueezyJet flight from Toulouse to Gatwick, and back by bike. Returning by bike would tiring, riding around 730 miles solo but, with current baggage restrictions, it would give me the opportunity to do some shopping and collect some odds and ends from the house.

Pathetic flyer, me. As we left the ground, I said a little prayer to Our Lady to please return me safely to John. Mercifully, the flight was eventless. I caught the train from Gatwick to Clapham Junction and connected with another to leave me within easy walking distance. The only luggage I had with me was my handbag containing, amongst other things, two changes of undies, a toothbrush, and a large reusable carrier bag. It was bright and sunny when I got off the train around 2pm, so I decided to do the shopping and stop in to see the estate agent en route to the house. About two hours later, I staggered up to our front door with 3 heavy carrier bags and my handbag.

Expecting to find my tyres and battery flat, the first thing I did was to check both bikes. However, someone up there smiled on me. Both were fine. So I deadheaded and watered the window boxes, and pruned and weeded the back garden. I spent the rest of the day alternately cleaning the house and ticking things off my long list of “things to bring back” as I came across them. By the time I was due to meet my aunt for dinner, the whole dining table and most of the living room floor was covered in stuff to be loaded onto the bike for the return trip. There was a lot of stuff!

The following morning I had aimed to leave the house at 6am to catch the 7.55am ferry from Dover. Somewhat predictably, it took rather longer than I had allowed for to pack the bike. By 6.30am I was on the road. Amongst the luggage I had:

Automatic double tray cat feeder
2 flee collars
Curry powder
Lime pickle
Spicy mango chutney
Creamed coconut
Cheddar cheese
Bath Oliver biscuits
2 x 5lb packs of bacon
A Thermos coolbag
5 months’ worth of Omaprozole and other prescription drugs accidentally left behind
2 large bottles of Glucosamine Sulphate
1 even larger bottle of multi-vitamins
John’s motorcycle clothing, boots and helmet
Complete set of French text books, 6 associated video tapes and 3 CDs
3 large Foolscap suspension files from our desk
Miscellaneous post that the Post Office had failed to redirect
Letter opener
Stapler
Magnifying glass
4 Irish Coffee glasses
Motorcycle tools
Biscuit Tin
… and a bottle of French mustard!

I dreaded being asked to open my panniers by the security staff at Dover.

In the event, I caught the 9.25am ferry. I was a bit dispondent when I rang John from Dover, as I had vaguely hoped to get back to Montréjeau the same day. With the time difference, I would not arrive in Calais until nearly midday, so I would have to stop overnight.

It was 5pm by the time I got to Orléans. The ride was going well. The weather was warm but not hot, and I was comfortable in my summer gear. The cloud cover even protected my eyes from eye-strain - something I often suffer from when driving the same route in the car. It was still unrealistic to hope that I would complete the journey in the day, but I was not in the least tired. John said he would be going out for the evening, so I said I would ring him on his mobile from Limoges.

As it happened, I had to stop for fuel before Limoges, so had a practically full tank that took me through to Cahors. It was now 9pm. I had encountered a few sprinkles of refreshing rain around Châteauroux, but just as I was expecting the weather to cool down, the sun came out. I was still wide awake and enjoying all the sights and smells of the French countryside. I rang John from the service station at about 9.30pm. I was about two and a half hours from home.

I took a long break, had a steak for dinner, shut my eyes for 10 or 15 minutes, and then had a coffee to bring me round. At 10.15pm I rang John again to say that I would be home tonight. I got in at 12.30am, a little saddle-sore but still awake and alert. John and I shared a bottle of wine.

It was meant to be. Yesterday’s prayer on the aeroplane had been answered. I am not superhuman and, under normal circumstances, would have been dangerously fatigued by Cahors. I fully intended to stop around Limoges - particularly in view of my late arrival in Calais.

Riding 730 miles solo in a day is madness. I wouldn’t choose to do it again, and I certainly wouldn’t recommend it. There were times, when I got off the bike to refuel, that I felt as if I had been wired up to some sort of giant Slendertone machine all day. But, for some strange reason, today all the conditions were in my favour: the weather, my bike, the roads, the traffic, my clothing, my state of mind … Thank you God. It was a great ride!

Posted in Uncategorised | Print | No Comments »

04/08/2007 by Brigid.

There is always something going on in Montréjeau. Today it was the much publicised Marché à l’Ancienne. Drum majorettes, classic cars and working horses were promised, followed by a meal in the town’s Salle de Fête. Register at the tourist office, the poster said. “What is it all about?”, we asked. “C’est sympa”, said the receptionist. Duly informed, we signed up.

It was all a bit confusing on the day, as Monday is market day in Montréjeau anyway. However, today the normal population was swelled by hundreds, if not thousands, of visitors. All the usual fruit and veg stands were there, along with the handbags, shoes, livestock (poultry, live trout and rabbits), clothes, garden plants, cheese, hot pizza and roast chicken … Demonstrations of traditional crafts like chair-strawing and wool-spinning were attracting sizable groups of on-lookers, and a large crowd of children were gathered around the knife-grinder, apparently hoping that the old man might liven up the proceedings with the loss of one or two fingers! Today, we also had a “native American” (probably native of Toulouse, she said cynically …) chanting and doing some sort of tribal rain dance. He looked very imposing with his feather headdress and bone breast plate, but the colourful craftwork he was peddling looked to have originated in Peru rather than the North American plains.

Keen to get away from the crowds, JR and I wandered down Rue de Barry to see if there was anything going on at the old flower market. Instead we were among the first to see the start of the parade. Having found an agreeably empty stretch of pavement, we were in a prime spot for some good photos. The classic cars, such as they were, were followed by a disorganised group of butter-fingered young baton-twirlers. Each apparently accompanied by their own private entourage of parents and siblings.

Then we had a couple of ox carts, some donkeys, a shepherdess leading four sheep, and a goat herd with three or four young goats … all hastened along by some dashing whip-cracking horsemen representing the Guides
à Cheval de Luchon.

Earlier, as we had left the house, I had commented on a distinct smell of diesel exhaust that seemed to have mysteriously accumulated in our hallway. Now it became clear where the fumes had come from. After the horsemen of Luchon came an impressive convoy of vintage tractors (yes, that really is a Porsche) and other farm vehicles. Historically interesting though they may have been, the accompanying stink was both asphixiating and stomach-turning. So much for the cleaner, greener days of yore!

The Salle de Fête is enormous. Tables had been laid for about 600 people, and band instruments were set up on stage. My heart sank at the idea of having to test my French against all the background noise. As the room began to fill up, JR and I looked around for some sympathetic folk to try our conversation skills on. We duly picked out a friendly-looking couple sitting with one other friend at the end of an otherwise empty table. What happened next is nothing short of a miracle.

We introduced ourselves and they politely asked a little about our background, where we had lived in the UK, what brought us to France, how long we had been here … and where we were living now. It turned out that, of all the tables we could have picked, we had ended up sitting next to the owners of number 20 Rue St. Barthélémy - our next door neighbours!

We couldn’t possibly have known. The house has been empty for years and the owners, Guy and Marie-Rose, actually live a few kilometres away in Tourreilles. They were utterly charming, patiently repeating and re-phrasing anything we didn’t understand, and occasionally correcting our French. We were joined by Lucién (or “Lulu”, as Marie-Rose called him) who, equally patiently, took great trouble to explain French rugby club hierarchy to John.

The four course meal included an aperitif, red or rosé wine and a killer shot of eau de vie to finish. It was about 4pm by the time we left and, exhausted by a combination of marathon French conversation and alcohol, we needed a doze.

Unfortunately, I had completely forgotten our electrician, who had promised to call a week earlier. He appeared at 7pm. My conversation skills had, by now, completely evaporated, leaving me burbling incomprehensibly around reuniting the two electricity supplies and getting rid of one of the meters. He explained that he was just about to go on holiday, but kindly sent two of his lads round the following morning to do a quick temporary fix that allowed us to remove the last of the partitions separating the two flats. All in all, a good day!

Posted in Uncategorised | Print | No Comments »