POLES APART: A ramble about life in the frozen northern fringe of Europe, the warm, wine-soaked West of France and the soft southern hills of Andalucia.
We visited a French National Monument a while back. Oradour Sur Glane is a state maintained ruin with a macabre difference. It is a village where a Second World War atrocity occurred on this day, 1944. It is a remarkable reminder of the futility and inhumanity of war. All wars. Worth considering given current world problems.
Oradour was a small, typically French rural village in the Limousin where German Waffen SS savages attacked and looted the place for absolutely no reason. Some have suggested the attack was in reprisal for resistance activities in the area. But there is no evidence in support of this theory/reason I find it hard to imagine any 'reason' for such barbarism, myself. The outcome resulted in the village and its people being well....destroyed. The French, to their credit, have maintained the place in the condition it was left in when the Germans scuttled off. The photographs are self explanatory:
Hopefully Hamish will never be exposed personally to the horrors of warfare
This is a useful general info site about this appalling atrocity, where the women and children who had sought refuge by crushing into the village church were, blasted by hand-grenages, smoke-bombed, gunned down and finally bruleed - an old French tradition: http://www.oradour.info/
A memorable clip from an amusing show with a deadly finality.
It is a sobering place to visit and although there are no demads for silence or quietude, it is there in the visitors who cannot help but be effected by the sombre nature of the place.
Finally, on a different note, also on this day, 1977, J and I were married in Brighton Registry Office. Another sobering thought. 34 bloody years.......trench-warfare, trials and tribulations! Bloody Hell! How unfashionable! Who'dathunkit?!
And on this day, 1932, George Formby was did his first recording for record company Decca:
Coldest day so far since we came down here from Sweden. Temp about 15 degrees, cloudy, overcast, breezy. Temps probably on a par with the Hebrides today. Ironically Fun City is basking in warm sunshine:
It does get hot up there in summer. But, of course, the blood-crazed (usually mine) Mozzies and hungry Horseflies will be out in huge numbers, too. So mustn't grumble really.
Summer in Langvattnet:
Charlie is behaving a bit oddly, even for him, right now. Since he returned from the Froggo Cattery about a week ago, he has been a bit more skittish than usual and seldom comes into the house, save at night when he pops in briefly, eats, wails for attention from me, bugs Jack and departs to hunt again, I presume. He's not even coming in for his traditional morning cream (I'm a sucker, I know!) - and the prospect of him using his bleeding, expensive Cat-Bed thingy is about.....well,....zip, I'd say. I'm not sure what the problem is, though if I'm out in the garden or thereabouts he does come to me for a cuddle. If jack's out there, he rambles over to him to bug him, as normal, so maybe he's just being a bit temperamental. All will be revealed eventually, I trust.
Here he is, giving me the 'eyes'.
J thinks it's because she's around and he notoriously avoids her for the most part - despite the ironic fact that he is 'her' cat, she having selected him from his (all now dead) siblings. He was basically an indoor feral in Sweden. His mother was owned by a neighbour of ours, Ulf, who worked in Norway during weekdays erecting log cabins. His parents called past his house, collected mail, fed and watered his cat etc indoors, a few times a week while he was out of the country.
His cat - an untreated queen kept getting pregnant from a another neighbour's (Rolf) untreated male - neither of them would stump up for the vet bills, so it was a recurring cycle. Normally in Sweden cats are difficult to find and always expensive. Ulf, however, was happy to get rid of his. Hardly surprising given the circumstances! He invited us over to choose one from the latest litter, all of whom were running wild throughout the house with litter trays in strategic spots. All hid under a bed when we appeared and when I finally managed to catch one after a lengthy chase up and downstairs etc., J decided it wasn't the one she'd originally wanted. So it was back to square one again, the chase on till Charlie was captured with loads of hissing, spitting, scratching and biting.
Back home, he was untouchable for weeks on end, only gradually coming round to occassional sightings and carresses with a long wooden chopstick with a feather on its end. I spent hours lying on the floor of the study where he lived stretching out, ignoring his threatening hisses, and stroking and talking to him, often till 02:00 in the morning. He eventually seemed to bond with Jack - to everyone's surprise, especially poor Jack! When he was about six months old, he was savaged by three farm terrier/hunting dogs and virtually killed. I luckily heard a noise outside, ran out and kicked the dogs from him - one had him by the head, another by the behind, while the third barked and ineffectually snapped at his middle. I had initially thought him to be dead - his pupils were fully dilated and he made no movement when I picked him up to carry him indoors. Luckily, however, he showed life when he simply bit though a finger. I had to prise his mouth open to release it. After three days at the vets, he was lucky to survive but has been a tricky booger ever since!
Ulf, we later discovered to our horror, had simply killed all of the litter, including the adult queen, a pretty tabby, soon afterwards. Rolf lost his cat over winter. We felt guilty for not taking the cat I fist managed to catch hold of, and Charlie. But we think it would have been too tricky to domesticate two semi-feral kittens simultaneously. It still rankles, though.
When we took him to the local vet for his rabies shots, de-nutting etc., he clawed his way through the side of the heavy, reinforced cardboard box he was in and we had to borrow our neighbour, Hakan's gunsafe to transport him. This was a heavy, metal affair with a lock and vents. When I turned up at the vet with it, they opened it and out came this:
Apart from the big ears - which I've only really spotted now - he didn't appear to warrant such a secure strongbox! The vet just sniggered. If only she knew........
The sun is trying to break through right now, so perhaps it'll improve later this afternoon. Hope so, anyway.
And another fine song from the guy who gave us, 'Me and my friend the cat' (couldn't find on Chube) and the unforgettable masterpiece:
Not many lyrics to challenge these, I'd say.
We went for a wander yesterday along an old, disused railtrack nearby. It has been levelled and resurfaced by the local commune, and work is still going on apace. It was very tranquil and leafy. We found some Blackthorn, though not many had fruit, even now. A few had small,, hard green berries developing, so should be okay for Sloe Gin later in the year. J enjoys berrying:
Jack and Charlie had a fine rootle in the garden yesterday evening. Obviously, they both found something to interest them. Damned if I know what, though...........:
A few days ago, I mentioned these odd waspy hooped caterpillars that had appeared in the garden. Well, yesterday evening I found one of the Moths on a tomato plant. Very pretty, though the piccy is - as my usual - not too useful. In flight it looked great - but I failed miserably when I tried to capture that image!:
Well, we finally had rain. Yesterday evening the thunder began to crash around in the distance and soon afterwards we had a proper downpour preceded by a touch of hail, of all things. Needless to say, it didn't pee-down till after the garden watering ritual was completed!
But it was heavy for a time and continued falling for an hour or so. As a result, it is welcomely fresher today, not to say refreshing.
Now we have a bit of light cloud, a more pleasant coolness in the air and buckets of birdsong. J started the bready process last night; by this morning the first stage - a 'sponge' - was climbing out of the bowl, the biggest we have. She thinks it a bit too wet but it went into the oven allright. She always made bread in Sweden, using a machine to mix the dough then a traditional oven finish. In Swedeland they have a penchant for sweetish, suger added, breads and crispy stuff that looks, feels and tastes like cardboard, for the most part. She thinks that using French bread flour might be the difference and reason why it seemed wetter than she'd like it to be, together with a different yeast. She plans to make another batch in a few days time. This time using different quantities as a trial. It looks fine to me and it tastes mighty fine, too.
It does seem a tad strange to be making bread in France, a country with a reputation for fine crusty pains and baguettes etc, with artisan boulangers still surviving in most villages. We have three nearby! But it is a useful skill to have and when/if we make it up to the Hebrides, will be of value, I'm sure.
We've more or less decided that Lewis is the favoured spot for our relocation. We had been planning to go down to our Spanish place for a bit then maybe move over from there but it makes (marginally) more sense to move there from here, given transport/removal costs/mileages involved etc.
It has taken a bit of persuasion to convince J that this will be a good move. She is worried about having a decent growing garden and perticularly the weather - the wind and the rain - something that is difficult to write-off or deny and which can/will be challenging. However, she has now confirmed that it will probably work out okay for us all in the longer-run. She also remembers the awful health services on Skye when she was pregnant, one of the reasons she herself, (who had originally trained as an SRN) became a Midwife shortly after leaving the island. It's been another reason for her hesitation, though she now realises this aspect of Hebridean life has changed enormously in the intervening thirty-odd years!
We're not too sure of how to approach it just yet. J can retire next year but can also leave early (on slightly reduced pension) at the tail end of 2011. She hopes to continue as a Midwife in London (on the bank) at the hospital she currently works with, who have confirmed this would be fine with them. We also, of course, want to raise funds from the sales of our houses in both Spain and Sweden.
Having not had a mortgage for many years now, this is not an avenue that appeals greatly. In addition, lenders are behaving like total assholes these days, from all we can gather. Nevertheless, it might be a suitable short (hopefully)-term fix that would get us off our behinds and up to Lewis. I think renting for a bit is also a good option, as we could get to know the area better and be in a position to view property and select an area in which to buy with more background info and knowledge under our belt. However, we don't know whether there is much of a rental market up there and what the options in that direction might be. If anyone has any ideas, they'd be most welcome!
Charlie wasn't greatly taken by rain and cowered under the Hazel trees followed by the back axle of the car, before turning in for a bit of drying off, preening and affection. He then braved the storm for the remainder of the night. As it is again threatening a bit of rain - nothing that would be recognised as such by those in the Outer Hebrides - he will probably return to the fold again soon. I'm not sure whether to get out and water the garden veg again this late afternoon; or might that be tempting the Gods?!
Well....the 'Curry Night' with a bevvy of Brits was okay. The food was good, including (or especially) the home-made Samozas, made by Jean, Frank's wife. Jack was hounded relentlessly by Frank's six month old Jack Russel pup, Louis, while their cocker, Penny, largely kept out of sight. No doubt, welcoming the brief respite from Louis' puupyish attacks.
One guy there was a collector and restorer of Stationary Engines - a decidedly British sort of eccentricity/obsession, I'd think. He'd just bought five - yes five - at a brocante/junk dealer's fair in a neighbouring town on Thursday! These things are seriously heavy bits of kit, with one of his recent acquisitions weighing in at 1.5 tonnes. He actually has a part-ownership in one of 8.5 tonnes, back in Sussex! He assured us that there were real bargains to be had here in France on the stationary engine front! I don't think he managed to convince either of us and I certainly can't see us rushing out to grab a rusting lump of old metal machinery in the near future. Whatever the price!
This sort of daft thing:
Another arrived in an old, chrome-bumper MGB. It was in superb condition and obviously his pride and joy. Ideal for the conditions here, where he can roar around with the hood down attracting admiring glances from the locals:
Just like this one:
Cruising begins here:
J decided to try out her handbaking skills after the course she attended in Yorkshire last weekend. It was her first solo attempt following their guidance, suggestions and tuition. But the scales we have were not accurate enough and they had been insistant on the importance of accurate measuring and weighing of ingredients. So we rolled along to our local supermarket and bought an electronic set for the horrendous price of thirty euros!! As we pulled in and parked, we were alongside an oldish (1980s, at a guess) Buick Park Lane. A rare sight in France, and something of an ugly gas-guzzling sedan!
Up in Sweden, they adore old American cars. Most small towns and villages will have at least one lurking somewhere, and in summer they cruise back and forth, up and down, along and....you get the drift. In Fun City, they used to come out and play on the day of the annual country/rock music event, when maybe a dozen or so brightly coloured, chromed Yank tanks would take to the streets and drive the mile or so from one side to the other of the town, with music blaring from their radios, of course. It made for an unexpected and unusual spectacle, though I've never been able to figure out just where this abject love of fuel gobbling cars fits into the Swede's so-called environmentalism.
Our Hens have returned to the two-a-day method of egg production, so all is well with them, save for the effect of the heat which has them searching out what shade they can find and visibly panting at times, which I'm sure can't be pleasant or good for them. Today we had about 28 degrees by 13:00. So pretty hot, then!
I found an unusual caterpillar making its way, slowly-slowly, down the garden towards the gate this morning:
Cinnabar Moth Larvae
The moth itself is strikingly pretty. I tried copying an image in here but gave up after a few goes. It's worth having a look at one, though. A gorgeous looking creature to be sure!
'Twere so hot this morning that both Jack and Charlie gave up the struggle and decided a nap was in order:
I know exactly how they felt. Think it's time for a glass of plonk....or maybe a fizzy, frothy, terrible French beer.......
I thought it time to mow the grass again yesterday. My initial assessment of the temps reaching about 26 degrees was, if anything, a tad conservative. Or it certainly felt that uncomfortably, sweaty way by the time I finished, after a solid hour and a half of being dragged around by the temperamental mower thingy. Just to be flash, I also dug out J's Hoe - an implement that I happily know little about and view as being her own, special, personal property, generally speaking. I set about the Veg beds.....and let me confess right now, 'tis bloody hard going - especially under the remorseless assault of the sun. Still, even if I say it myself, it looks a bit better. Just hope it all survives my attack.
One of the Chooks has found a way out of its patch. Damned if I know how it's doing it, though. It visited me a couple of times yesterday during the afternoon, before allowing me to pick it up and drop her back in with her buddy, who is clearly agitated to be left alone. I had to give the pair of them a talking to yesterday evening, cos they gave me only one egg. Given the number of eggs we have following my UK visit, this is probably not too great a worry, but it will be nice to get back to the status quo with two a day.
I had been thinking of that old favourite, Egg Curry, as a suitable vehicle for the disposal of the mountainous numbers of eggs but a visitor to the blog (http://www.thebarefootcrofter.com/), suggested Tortillas as a suitable substitute, so, as I had some fresh prawns around, I took her advice and made myself a Prawn Tortilla; and most enjoyable it was too, despite being made by me! (Thanks, Jacqui). Only problem is I don't have a pan big enough for twenty eggs, so I made do with only four!
I also went off to the local town in search of milk from the machine-thingy. To my surprise, it was a public holiday yesterday here in La Belle France: everything was closed down - even the boulangers! I had no change so thought I'd have a quick drink in a local bar, as the milk machine thingy only takes cash. Luckily, however, the bars were also closed, it being Ascension, apparently! (Worryingly, perhaps, my birthday/ three score years falls on Pentecote! So no dining out, it seems).
I got some change elsewhere and having bought me milk headed back home, where I was pulled in by a couple of motor-cycling Gendarmes who insisted that I blow in their daft wee gizmo. All clear, they checked the car briefly, checked my licence and waved me off with a look of disappointment and puzzlement about the UK licence and the Swedish-plated voiture!:
The countryside around here is looking lovely, albeit a bit dry, right now.
Charlie is glad to be back home with Jack and I, though from the way he slouched off in search of tucker yesterday afternoon, you'd be hard pushed to think it:
He returned fairly soon afterwards with a morsel that he dispatched swiftly for a (welcome) change:
These meeces sure don't last long when Charlie's feeling peckish!
I was rummaging through our main freezer yesterday evening, searching for who knows what exactly! Fish was on my mind, though why I eat the frozen variety when it is fairly freely available as a fresh product in this region, I don't know. Thankfully, I found something suitable and was content with the tucker in the end.
However, while rummaging, I found a large bag of frozen blackcurrants. These were from our bushes in Sweden where, despite the low temps, berries grow in great abundance, surviving the deep-freeze of winter and bountifully recovering each summer. I often wonder if they would (or do) thrive to the same extent on the more exposed Isles of Scotland but suspect that the salinity in the air may be terminal or cause too many problems for them. I can't remember from our time living on Skye; it's just too far off, in the long distant past. As we are actively considering a move again to the Hebrides, I'd be interested to know, and J would certainly like to know what the chances are of growing berries successfully up there in my old homeland.
Bushes in winter:
Bushes in summer:
As we have loads of suger around (J bought a load for Marmaladeing a few months ago) and a spare bottle of Voddie, which we've had untouched (mostly!) for many months, I thought a melange might be a fruitfully toxic idea. So I lumped all of the Voddie, a load of Blackcurrants and some suger together in a sadly empty Whisky bottle that had yet to reach the decheterrie for recycling.
The result is already looking good:
And just in case you thought we'd run out:
We always carry a spare!
As the late, great John Martyn - a man who knew about these things (with a vengeance) - was oft wont to say:
Although John's lyrics would break a Scots heart, Darrell Scott also knows a thing or two about these things, for an American anyway:
Having started off here wittering about fish, I've digressed a bit to take in other essential supplies/victuals, it seems. Though it generally comes as a surprise to most people to learn that fresh fish - of any quality, let alone decent stuff - was virtually impossible to find in Sweden. Outside the main connurbations, Stockholm, Malmo, Gothenburg, it is just not generally available.
It's always possible to find Trout, given the huge numbers of lakes in the country, but seafood - forget it! It was infuriating at times, though the Swedes themselves seem to think little of it and certainly never view it as unusual, weird or strange that a country with a vast coastline has no seafood for sale! Me, I think it's bizarre! Norway is a different kettle of fish, of course! At a price!
It's another warm, sunny day again today. Temps will probably reach about 26, I expect. The problem with this constant warmth and dryness, is just that - the dryness gets to you over time! Now, I'm not looking for or wishing for rain - or not too much of it - but there are times when a good downpour would be a positive boon, for the garden in particular. 'Twould save me having to water everything each evening. Time which could be spent relaxing with a bottle of rouge or rose. A much more purposeful activity, in my opinion!
J is due back tomorrow about lunch-time, for a fortnight or so. We have been invited out to a Brit expatty sort of 'Curry Night' tomorrow evening. As an abject currymonger, (been scoffing the stuff for about 45 years now!!!) I am looking forward to it - but with the usual Brit-meets-Brit-abroad trepidation. I'm sure it'll be alright on the night, as they used to say on Telly.
I'm fast approaching my three score years, which will arrive in a matter of some eleven days. I had been looking forward to geting me bus-pass in London and having some fun with my already well passed-up mates over there. BUT....horror of horrors, having checked out the websites etc., I learn that the hopeless integrityless, Cleggy and coalition cronies have slashed it from under my ageing feet: I don't now qualify until September of next year; fook knows where the logic in this date might lie. But suffice to say, I'm less than amused.
