Visitors

All this holiday Tim has felt it his duty to bark furiously at any strange dog, car, tractor, lorry or cyclist. We don’t see many people simply walking, but he would have barked at them too. But yesterday about five o’ clock as I was starting to prepare our evening meal, there was an odd bark and a strange sound at the door. I looked up, and there was masculine face looking back at me – and not, I hasten to add, my husband.

A handsome young Frenchman had come to call, but the thing was that he didn’t speak English and our pigeon French was not doing too well. Ironic too that after all Tim’s barking, this young man had parked his van half a mile away at the end of the drive, walked all the way to the gate, opened and shut it and crossed the bolly to the door without Tim hearing him! Our faith in his guard dog propensities are shaken! I think he was shocked himself, for he then barked furiously and threatened the stranger with dire threats - none of which dismayed the young man. He was obviously used to dogs, as country people so often are. 

By means of odd words and mime we finally understood that he wanted to

sell us tickets to the fête in St Felix on 31^st July! The ticket would have paid for the food on offer. I gather you take a plate and a fork and help yourself to whatever takes your fancy. Unhappily, after all that effort at communication, we will be back in England by then, otherwise we would have gone. The same thing happened last year, but the couple who came then did have a little English and we bought the tickets but would not have been in France on the day. One day we will get there!

Though we’re on holiday we’re watching tv in between bouts of gardening and pruning and lawn cutting because there is always something happening. Cameron hands over to May today, and Labour now has 3 candidates for the leadership of the party. Someone must have wished us with living in interesting times. We’re just about to watch Cameron’s last Question time while we wait to hear who Mrs May appoints to her new government.

Both the old buildings are in Montclard St George.

Kicking Back

Had to be brave and use some French today. We’ve run out of recycle sacs and needed more, so off to the Mairie we drove. Every small village/commune has a Mairie which runs the place and we’d been told that we could get more sacs there. I used Google translator to get a nice, polite sentence in French, copied it down on a piece of paper, and marched up the steps of the smart new building in St Felix de Villadeix. I came back down flushed with success and clutching a big roll of yellow recycle sacs. My prepared sentence worked beautifully, and I adlibbed the rest!

Afterwards we drove to St George de Montclard by way of Rabard, and drove slowly by the house we almost bought about ten years ago. We couldn’t sell our own at the time, so the deal fell through, but it was a lovely house with lots of land. Actually, the recession of 2008 convinced us we had done the right thing in staying in England, and now Brexit is about to reinforce that. There are 129 houses for sale in this commune at the moment, prices ranging from 73,000 euros all the way up to 900,000 euros. No doubt a lot of English who’ve chosen to live here will now be thinking of returning. 

Lots of things that were easy and good in the EU, for travellers and those who chose to buy homes here, may now not be so good – medical attention when required, travel insurance, UK pensions that don’t rise with inflation – in other words, an income that is decreasing rather than keeping pace with the cost of living which is not now that much cheaper in France than in the UK. (Just as an aside I bought a tin of Heinz baked beans in the Intermarche the other day. In the UK it would cost me somewhere in the region of 35p; here it cost me the euro equivalent of £1.25.) The French don't do that kind of bean, though there are lots of other bean choices.

A journalist on the Daily Politic show today called Jeremy Corbyn’s 500,000 supporters “a group hug” which I though a nice way of putting it. His people keep quoting this figure as a reason for staying put at the head of the Labour Party but just don’t seem to realise that he has to get a substantial number of the other 60 million people of voting age in the rest of the country to vote for him as well.

Do we need water?

There was a programme on tv yesterday (BBC4) and like so many things at the moment, it had a connection to the Olympics. Not only are rail and customs people planning to go on strike just when they will cause the most damage to the UK's image, but it seems the makers of sports shoes and sports drinks have been misleading everyone for the last few years with their pronouncements of how every runner needs two litres of their particular sports drink before, during and after they run, and must wear particular shoes that probably cost a fortune so that the runners performance can be maximised.

Experts examined each and every claim and rubbished them all. Water, and not too much of it, will do nicely. Drink when you are thirsty and be aware that pre-loading water can be dangerous. Comfortable shoes that allow the feet to behave naturally are what you need if you don't want to run in bare feet, which would be best of all. Yeah! I hope all these people who walk around clutching water bottles in one hand and mobile phones in the other saw the programme, and I hope they take note. After all, the evidence is out there, staring us in the face if we care to look. All those runners from Ethiopia, one of the dryest places on earth, where the children run miles to school on a morning and run home in the evening - are they carrying litre bottles of water to keep them going? Of course not. Yet they can run the socks off western athletes. Come on people, get a grip.

St Laurent de Batons

We spent a happy time cycling over to Montclar again this morning, by the main road this time, bought a few groceries and enjoyed an Italian ice cream cornet before we cycled back home via a new route, which was pretty, but with lots of hills. Eventually I stopped trying to cycle uphill and pushed the bike up all the uphill bits - such relief from using a different set of muscles! All in all it took us two hours, so I feel I can sit at my computer now and try for another chapter of the wip without feeling guilty.

 Just for the record, the sun wasn't out this morning, and I remembered to keep my mouth shut while cycling (in case of flies!) with  he result that we didn't feel the need to stop and take a drink, though we had a bottle of water with us.

Montclar or Montclard?

Maison dans Montclar

At 20 past ten last night the local farmer was still whizzing up and down with his tractor. They say they have long lunches in the middle of the day to avoid the heat, and yesterday was so very hot I think they’re sensible to do so.

As you might have guessed, we didn’t go shopping yesterday morning. Instead we cycled east up the valley to St Laurent des Bâtons, another very pretty little village of 240 inhabitants with a Hotel de Ville, a church, a cemetery and not the slightest hint of a shop. They have a fair way to go for groceries. But then mileage, or should that be kilometreage? is strange here. We passed a signboard for Laurent: 0.1 kilometre. We rode another kikometre in the same direction toward Laurent and found a second signboard that declared it was still 0.1 of a kilometre to Laurent. Not quite a time warp, but certainly a mileage warp.

Montclar

Montclard, which we visited the day before yesterday, used to reign over ten parishes stretching from St Laurent des Batons in the east to Montagnac la Crempse in the west. Strangely, it never had a church – the hamlet of St Georges, a little further away, has the church, built on the site of a Gallo-Roman religious edifice. There is a footpath leading directly across the hill from Montclard to the church, but it must have been quite a trek of at least a kilometre on a cold winter’s day. Winters here can be surprisingly harsh. The winter of 2011/12 had days when the temperature dropped to minus 20 degrees C, and the bamboo, which a lot of keen gardeners employ as hedging these days, and all soft fruit along the valley, perished. Some of the trees look as if they’ve suffered, too.

There used to be a chapel within the eleventh century castle walls, although recent excavations have yet to find any trace of it. It was called St Macaire’s Chapel. Montclard, which is confusingly spelled Montclar on the signboards and Montclard on the maps, has always been inhabited by lawyers, doctors, tradesmen and shopkeepers and, consequently, the village and its surroundings are notable for their lack of big, old farms. The ground floor of the large houses served as workshop, shop and depot. The baker is still there, and you have to be up early if you want to buy your bread fresh that day. By midday he’ll have shut up and gone home for ze long lunch.

BTW, if anyone knows what a rampeau is, do tell. There's one scheduled at the village fete on 28th. (Yes, I know fete should have those little triange thingies...)

This is France

The Castle looms up behind the houses

After a grey weekend we woke to bright blue sky and sunshine, which is what we came to France to enjoy since we never get any at home. We’ve finished beating down the undergrowth and painting shutters, so this morning we took our bikes out on the road with serious intent.

We cycled to Montclard St Georges which is about six miles away, and we went via country roads. Several times we stopped for a breather, or to let tractors go by and twice we had barking farm dogs run out at us. Fortunately the boxer gave up after a snarky look at me, a snarled Steady! discouraged the spaniel, and  Non! turned away the one-eyed terrier. I don’t suppose the words mattered, and why I chose Steady! I’ll never know – the tone of command did the trick.

The bakery

The castle at St Georges is still up for sale if anyone has a mind to buy. It’s been for sale for a year or two that we know of, but it seems there are no takers. I don’t know why – it’s set in the middle of a delightful village. Would take the deep pocket of a pop star, I suppose, to make something of it – but what a thing it would be! The little shop we'd planned to visit was closed due to the national holiday, which we'd sort of expected.

Thinking of all the hills we’d laboured up, we opted to cycle back home via the main road, which wasn’t as scary as we anticipated. Drivers gave us a wide berth, possibly because in our high viz vests and definitely not in the first flush of youth, we looked dangerous on bikes with 20 inch wheels. I began to tire as we rode the last couple of miles home, but made it safely.

The washing machine had done its job while we were out, so I hung the clothes out in the sunshine to dry, set up a tray and we ate pate and salad for lunch on the bolly. I plan not to move very far at all for the rest of the day, but we’re planning another road trip tomorrow. Or maybe we’ll go into Bergerac for much needed food supplies. We’ll decide in the morning.

Castle for sale

Today the temperature is going up and up, so we stopped doing anything active by 10.30! 31 degrees is forecast by midday. Sheets are drying out in the sun, and the heat is bouncing off the roof tiles. For the next four or five hours we’ll do very little physically, but it’s an excellent time to think, read and add a little more to my new wip. We’ve had about ten days of cloudy weather – always warm, somewhere around 24 degrees, but little sun, so this makes a nice change.

It would be a good time to go through Matho’s story and take out all those unnecessary words…you know them, I’m sure:- that, a little, felt, seemed, very, began to, down. We all have those little ticks. I’ve developed a new one - a habit of announcing what my character is going to do or feel, and then having them do or feel it. It’s a warning for me to take note – our bad habits don’t necessarily die as we progress; (if I'm progressing, that is!) but they may change! Anyone else found that?

In case you were interested in buying a castle, I’ve added more pics. According to the short history posted outside, it has been around since Norman times, and I must admit it makes me picture a fair-haired damsel with a single long plait of hair down to her heels peering into the distance from the balcony, waiting for her lover whose ridden off to the wars...

It’s in an idyllic village called Montclard St Georges off the D21 north of Bergerac. Click here to look at a Google image of the countryside, but take no notice of the A blob supposed to pinpoint the castle. Look instead for the triangle of roads and the castle-like shadow to the east side of said triangle – that’s the castle.

I do wonder about the asking price…. but the A Vendre sign stuck on the castle wall doesn't give any clues. Perhaps a potential buyer is supposed to wander up to the door, should he be able to find it, and say, I'll give you ten grand for it, whaddyesay?