Sole Survivor

It`s true, friends, Mrs Noah has jumped ship and I am left all alone to care for the animal cargo and to thus assure the continuance of the admittedly limited species aboard the Ark. Before you all jump to the conclusion that she has run off with another,  I will state that we parted on excellent terms, and her temporary absence of a month is to visit with our daughter in Plymouth and to accompany her on a package holiday in Turkey. I could have chosen to go too but sun-bathing on a beach palls with me after half an hour and I become restless and hard to live with.
  I took her to Bordeaux this morning to catch her plane to Bristol where Alyson picked her up. Unfortunately La Rochelle airport doesn`t open until May to do its Bristol flights.  Incidentally this is a lost opportunity for the airlines as La Rochelle is always heaving with Brits going and coming and there must be plenty of trade for at least a weekly flight. Kim doesn`t like flying and got so jumpy she took a Zanax and probably slept all the way, the poor thing. Still, I have heard by SMS that she has safely arrived so everybody can relax.

 I shall take the opportunity to get some DIY and decorating done while I can leave the place in a disorder which would not be sanctioned under Mrs N`s supervision! So everybody will be happy doing their own thing...For a start I have mended the cat flap on the stair-door and the damage to the door itself caused by Laika this morning at 530am, for goodness sake. Yes you can well look ashamed,wretched creature! She broke out of her sleeping cage, attacked the door and the cat flap presumably to try to come upstairs. When I descended to find out what the whining was about, I found she had turned the snib on the stair-door so I was locked out of the kitchen and the only way of reaching the ground floor!  I was seriously thinking of climbing down from the bedroom window but eventually forced the door, damaging the edge of it. Oh, no,it`s not all beer and skittles running an Ark!
         Bye for now!

Royal Wedding Preview

No, not that wedding, silly. I can`t gather up much enthusiasm for that one though it may serve a useful purpose in cheering up a somewhat morose UK. No, this wedding was a much closer affair and involved a member of our church at Matha. Sara was marrying her beloved Benoit and all the congregation were invited to attend. Surely every wedding is a royal one to its couple and all brides look like princesses to their princes on the day
  Kim and I being part of the choir had an important part to play and were suitably nervous but the choir`s contribution sounded good, you will be glad to hear.
  A French wedding is organised a little differently to an English one. For a start it seems odd to see the couple mingling together with the crowd before the church door before the ceremony. Still this is perhaps due to the fact that a wedding in church is not valid in France, the defining ceremony takes place in the Mairie and it is the Maire who ties the knot. Still with this slight amendment the actual ceremony is very similar to an English one, and the Minister gives the impression that it is he who does the deed, whatever the Maire thinks, God taking precedence over the state.
  After, the whole congregation were invited to the Vin d`honneur at the bride`s mum`s house and the newly weds created an impression by arriving en caleche.
 We all had a good chat and ate lots of nibbles and drank various tipples. A good time was had by all, even by the bemused English couple who had hired the attached gite and were surprised to find a wedding reception taking place arround them!

Motorcycle mayhem

A little time ago I wrote of my love affair with this bike, the Triumph Twenty-one pictured  here. Tonight I will make your blood curdle with the most scary time I had astride it, or indeed astride any motorcycle.
   To set the scene, I would say that at the time I lived in Portsmouth and made occasional trips to Plymouth to visit my Dad for the weekend. I would leave Portsmouth on Friday evening after work and reckoned to be in Plymouth, some 180 miles away by late evening. This particular evening I had set out as usual and had got as far as Ivybridge, only 10 miles to go. The bike was well capable of such a trip, having plenty of poke and an excellent headlamp.
  It was by that time very dark, being early in the year.  I left Ivybridge and accelerated hard along the road towards Lee Mill, at that time one of the few stretches of dual carriageway. There were  no streetlights and no traffic on the road as I reached cruising speed of 65 or so.  Suddenly stark drama-- the headlamp suddenly went out, plunging the scene into total darkness! It was as though I was riding the bike with my eyes shut, not a good thing at 65 mph! I didn`t panic at first, sometimes a main beam filament burns out and I did the sensible thing in flipping the dip-switch. Unfortunately this did nothing and now I did panic in earnest. I hit both brakes as hard as I dared and searched my memory as to where the road was going the last time I had seen it. It seemed to me it was trending slightly to the right and more importantly it had a solid looking post-and-rail fence on the left with which I didn`t want to get involved. I therefore veered slightly right, still braking as hard as I could For a nameless interval somewhere between a split second and a century I rushed blindly through the pitch darkness, till suddenly the bike ran onto the grass central reservation, span and fell on its side. Still in darkness it slid to a stop and the engine stalled. Everything was still and stationery.
  I made a mental check and found I was unhurt but coudn`t move my right foot. This was because it was trapped under the Triumph... I pulled hard and my welly came off, freeing me from the machine. I mentally made a short prayer of thanks, pulled out my boot and put it on profiting by the protection to give the recumbent bike a severe kick. The headlamp immediately came back on! I found that the `off-side-headlamp` switch on the headlamp casing had become worn and would turn beyond the `headlamp` position to a further unauthorised `off` position. I could have fixed this as soon as the light went out if I had known but tinkering with the electrics is contra-indicated at 65 in total darkness...
  The bike was substantially undamaged thanks to the wet grass and I was able to restart it and continue my journey. I will admit I have never been so frightened in my life before or since!
 

Cutting Edge 2 The Laguiole

mmmIn my earlier blog I told readers that I am a pocket knife enthusiast ( see Cutting Edge published in March ) At the time I promised, or rather threatened, to review a bit closer the regional knives of France.  I hope I don`t bore my readers by riding my hobby horse, but if I do please tell me. I might pay attention....
  OK, today I`d like to look closer at the most popular knife in France, the Laguiole. It`s easily recognised by it`s slim blade with the `stop` on the blunt edge, its narrow curved handle, and above all by the `mouche` or `abeille`attached to the end of the spring which retains the blade open or closed,

Laguiole is a small town in the Aubrac,  a high basalt plateau bordering three Departements, the Averon, the Cantal and the Lozere. A few small forges were sited here around 1830 which began making knife blades and fitments and the distinctive shape is said to be influenced by the Spanish navagas, which the local shepherds brought back when seeking work there. These Spanish knives also have a distinct `elbow` on the handle and a `cran force`, a system where the spring has a hook on the end which partially locks the blade in the open position. It is my theory that the earlier knives were true lock-knives and the `mouche` served to lift the spring to close the blade; nowadays a firm pressure on the blade is sufficient to close it.
   Laguioles normally have a ferrule at each end in steel or brass, though `plein manche` versions are found. The handles can be in almost any material, wood, horn, ivory or even mammoth ivory !
  The rivets which hold the sides of the handle in place are often arranged in a cross, as in the example in the top picture. Tradition has it that the lonely shepherd looking after his sheep during the summer on the high pastures could spike the open knife into their table and thus have an instant crucifix before which to make his devotions .
   Laguioles have usually just a single blade,  though a spike is sometimes found. When the empoverished shepherds sought work is Paris, often as Limonadiers in the late 19th Century a corkscrew was added and the fame of this attractive knife was spread beyond its rural origins.
  I hope this brief summary has whetted your appetite to know more of the regional knives of France; I might return to the subject later.  Bye for now!
 

End of an era?

A minor tragedy put me in mind of my change of state yesterday-- rushing to answer the phone I knocked down and broke my CIS mug one of the few reminders of my last employment. I realised that I had moved on and have never regretted leaving this employment or indeed any paid employment. Rude persons may say it`s because I`m lazy and I would admit there is an element of truth in this. Still I find it a little sad when a person admits that they live for their job, however fulfilling it may be. Besides in modern times there is danger in this: if you associate too closely with a position what do you do when you retire or worse, if you are suddenly made redundant? It can be a devastating shock and destroy the person`s self-confidence.
  I have a theory that it is a good thing to change career several times in your working life.  That way you cease to identify yourself with a job--you dont describe yourself as a Doctor or a plumber and thus if you cease to do the job you don`t lose your identity or self-worth. I will admit it doesn`t do much for your pension prospects, but that can be sorted by investment or by buying a French house while they were cheap!
  On another note, do you like the new header for the Ark? I spent yesterday afternoon while Kim was working on her patchwork in drawing the new heading picture and eventually succeeded in loading it onto the site.  I like the effect, hope you do too!  Bye for now.
  

Happiness, happiness

The other day a facebook link was saying that the British are uniformly miserable and unhappy and at the time I begged to differ. I have mused on the question a little since and tried to decide whether it is true or not.  It is true that there are an awful lot of moaners who are not content with their lot but is this the same thing? It is a characteristic of humanity to dream of improving their life, and this is not necessarily a bad thing or we would still be living in caves and THERE WOULDN`T BE ENOUGH CAVES TO GO ROUND! But there is a difference in striving for improvement and moaning about life in general.
  I have always, like Ken Dodd been blessed with a feeling of happiness although things have not been easy sometimes.  I have found though that if you`re patient and not too hasty things tend to get better after a time
   Mind you, I feel that I was born at a fortunate time. My elder brother was borne 4 years earlier than I ( I was born in `42 ) and he had to live through post-war austerity. My late teens and early twenties coincided with the Swinging Sixties a time of national confidence and full employment. Even the cars and bikes were much more interesting than the current look-alikes. It`s true they were less reliable but they were also less complicated and  if they did break down you had a chance of fixing the problem with a screw-driver or spanner rather than a diagnostic computer!
  Houses were also more affordable though it was always a gross effort to afford a mortgage. The first house I bought cost £4525 Unbelievable now though wages were much lower too. Inflation is of course the reason for the increase but if you already own a house this gives a feeling of profit.
  I suppose it`s paradoxical  to comment as I`m writing on a computer but I`m glad that most of my life was spent before they became commonplace. They are not an unmixed blessing and have done much to spoil job security and increase unemployment. The rapid changes they foster gives a feeling of insecurity to the generation raised before they arrived and the current generation are hooked on them to the detriment of their health.
   I also feel privileged in being able to retire at sixty in good health. For many months after retiring and coming to live in France I had recurrent nightmares that I would be told there had been a mistake and I should return to the office to recommence work. It was like a permanent holiday, doing what we always did on holiday! The generation working now face pressure to retire at 70 or even 75 to spend a shorter retirement in poor health. Poor things!
  I hope these musings don`t seem the work of someone moping after the past I do feel that I have been lucky to live through a vintage set of years. I hope there will be a few more to savour in the future!

Snip, snip, snip...

This afternoon as some of you may have seen from Kim`s status on Facebook we took our three ginger cats to the vet for the dreaded snip.We face a choice here of doing something about it or being overwhelmed with kittens.  Every house or farm here has cats and we have always sterilised our queens to avoid the Ark changing from overloaded to capsized!  It is usually not worth doing just the toms, as others will move into the power vacuum.
  Our cats at La mort Limouzin have always been very small,  perhaps a survival trait where food used to be scarce. Our three little ginger Toms are very small in size but from the rear there is no doubt of their sex. It`s as if their appurtenances were the only part to be of normal size! The result is that when they pursue the few receptive queens they get beaten up by bigger cats. The resulting frustration is expressed by loud howls and a tendency to mark territory, even in the house. We decided that we would have to bite the bullet and have them snipped.
  We had to keep them in and not feed then from last night till their appointment at three thirty today, a further heartbreak as they love their food. Finally we loaded them into two cat boxes and made the fatal journey.
 Our vet is lovely and a good friend. I chickened out of witnessing the proceedings, well someone has to do the shopping, but Kim bravely assisted (as an ex nurse she`s used to it, though I don`t suppose it`s an op often performed on the National Health, come to think of it! ) We took the cats home very comatose but well-wishers will be glad to know they are now quite chirpy and not holding our perfidy against us. Cats are much more forgiving than humans!