The delicacy of flowers

We met Annie (and husband Chris) for the first time probably a couple of years ago. I'm trying to remember exactly when. Not that it matters. We've seen each other a few times since, at different events, either in Richlieu (near to where they live), Chinon or Seuilly.  They live in France full time.

Someone told us that Annie was an illustrator which was of immediate interest. A lot of our friends are artists and in all sorts of mediums. They're a very interesting bunch of people. So Annie was yet another creative talent we've been lucky to make contact with.

A mutual friend sent an email which had been copied to Annie, suggesting we all meet up for lunch. There was a bit of a flurry as we tried to find a date. At the moment it looks like  June. But the main point about all this is that Annie's reply included her website,  so for the first time we were able to see her work.

Illustration simply doesn't do it justice. Annie is a botanical artist and what's more an amazingly good one.  If you can, take a moment to look at her site and her work. She's had exhibitions all over the place, including here in our region at Villandry.

Mike pointed out that we've actually a number of friends who are botanical artists. It's something we've not realised before. One is Sue Woodfine. We first met Sue and husband Andrew through an amateur dramatic group in Pinner. Lost touch a bit as can some times happen, but then through a mutual friend in Bradford on Avon, we all met up for dinner. It was great. A lot had happened since we'd last seen each other, including the development of Sue's painting skills. Never knew she had such ability. 

Then there are the South African (S.A.) connections. Mike's cousin, David Shearing is an authority on Karoo Flowers and Plants and published a book a while back, with gorgeous botanical drawings by Katryn Van Heerden. 

Mike on right. Di in the middle.

Mike then remembered another contact he'd had in S.A., while at Cape Town University through Di Batten, whose mother was Auriol Batten, a renowned South African Botanical artist, regarded by many as one of the country's finest.

I so admire all this talent. It's beautiful work. And what skill to paint those delicate textures in such detail.

The wine flowed . . .

It's been quite a weekend. Here's a quick glimpse of where we were Saturday - Chinon wine festival - Place Hoffheim, which is the German town that Chinon is twinned with. The festival was set up in three key areas, the other two being Place Mirabeau and the main square in the centre of town. There were about sixty wine producers. Cravant was represented in Place Mirabeau. Lovely lovely time. We'd called into some friends first thing in Chinon, and then went wandering around afterwards, bumping into others we know as we went round, and catching up with various wine producers. Good atmosphere. Live music everywhere and excellent wines. We paced ourselves very carefully as we were  out to dinner that same evening.

Saturday evening we were with friends at their house near Fontevraud. It's about thirty minutes from Cravant. There were ten of us in all, some of whom were meeting for the first time. Great evening.  Sunday morning we drove to the other side of Chinon to a quartier called St.Louans. The first time we'd been over there. You can see it from the ramparts of Chinon Castle and had often said we should go and wander around. We'd made some new friends who live there and who we'd met through one of our Anglo-French groups. So went over to support their village event - a Vide-Grenier - emptying the attic. Stalls lined the streets all over the village. There were eateries and bars at various places to be stopped off at as we wandered around. Hopefully they've made some money. Last year the weather was horrendous, but even so they broke even. This time it was a lovely day and by the time we left which was about mid morning, there were plenty of customers around.  We then dropped back into Chinon to see another friend from the same Anglo-French group but he is involved with French Rotary. They had a fund raising event along the river edge in Chinon, all sorts of items for the garden, including some fabulous herbs. Our friend was a marshall and happened to be standing by someone else we know, who was doing face painting for children and adults. As I was dressed head to toe in blue, I had a magnificent striped fish painted on my cheek. Mike of course managed to escape. The offer of painting hair on his head didn't really appeal. 

Next stop on Sunday was to a porte-ouverte on the Chinon side of Cravant. Domaine de Nueil (doesn't have a website) is owned by Laurent Gilloire and has been for several generations. Lovely wine and lovely people. Theirs was a two-day event. The first day clashed with the Chinon wine fair, so we went the next day and booked for lunch. We got there around midday. Great buzz. As you drive towards it from Chinon the domaine is quite striking with a turreted building at the front, that leads into a large courtyard. The entire family live on site - several generations - in their own houses all of which face on to the same courtyard.  Their portes-ouvertes are always well supported. We checked in, were given a glass (to keep - quite normal here) and then we wandered into the cave for a series of tastings. Six reds and two rosés. Delicious. We bought a case of Vieille Vigne/2011. So good. Bumped into some more French friends and decided to have lunch together as they'd booked as well. They arrived with their seventeen year old grandson, who had just been to the UK for a week, staying of all places, in Bath - just eight miles from our house in Bradford on Avon. Bath we of course know very well. Small world etc., As to lunch, all I can say is that I ate one of the most delicious and beautifully cooked steaks, ever. Such flavour and so tender.  Wine came with lunch, cheese, bread etc. The eating area was under a huge canopy. Absolutely packed. Everyone was chatting together. Wonderful atmosphere.  Unsurprisingly we went home and collapsed in a heap. It had all been just ace.

Camille Claudel 1915

What a story and what a film. We went to the cinema in Chinon. A Cinéplus evening, meaning an art house film (d'art et d'essai). Over the last six years (this August), we've seen some great films thanks to Cinéplus programming.  French, American, British, Iranian, Georgian, German, Italian, Australian, Chinese - just a selection to give an idea of the range. It's always worth going.

This séance was another stunning piece of work. Camille Claudel 1915. Filmed and performed to perfection, conveying the hopelessness, the loneliness  and the mental torture inflicted on a female creative spirit in the 19th century. The life shown was uncompromisingly harsh and relentless.

Juliet Binoche was exceptional in her portrayal of Camille Claudel. In the programme notes, it seems this film project was something she had wanted to do and the director, Bruno Nuytten had been her choice of director. He also wrote the script. 

The life of Camille Claudel makes lamentable reading. A sculptress of some repute, the lover of Rodin as well as his muse, she was consigned to life in mental institutions for over  thirty years. Despite the attempts of successive doctors, they were unable to persuade her family to take Camille home. She wasn't insane, but subject to outbursts of passionate belief. She accused Rodin of stealing her ideas. Something we read about quite frequently in the papers these days, but of course no one is accused of being insane and then committed. Good little earners too those cases for barristers. Camille's lifestyle choices offended her family. The institutionalised life they imposed on her comes across more as one of vengeance. Her brother was as passionate in his religious beliefs, but of course no one questioned his state of mind. 

The film was shot with actual medical staff and their patients.  The result was flawless collaboration and film making that was 'incredibly compassionate and humble'. 

To Wills and George with love - from France 2013

We thought we'd do something radical to mark Wills and  George's day. None of your flag waving or waxing lyrical over some rose infested balcony. It had to be something a bit  different, which at the same time related to our move to France. After all les liens étroits between our two countries go back at least 900 years. So here's a picture of our contribution to today's events. The newly decorated and now administratively legitimate trusty steed of the Shearing household.

The process began back on March 4, when Mr Mike Shearing formerly of 4 Longs Yard, Bradford on Avon, wrote to Honda Central for a Certificate of Conformity, which confirms the car meets UK requirements. He also approached the Honda Jazz garage in Chippenham for a major service for Honda Jazz LR06 BGR, also formerly of 4 Longs Yard, Bradford on  Avon, to include a change of headlights so as to comply with French regulations. The completed service was duly signed off. Three weeks ago we moved to Cravant les Coteaux, France and last week we began the process of registering our car here.  

The first stage was to acquire the French equivalent of the British MOT which is known as the Contrôle Technique.  Armed with original purchase invoice for our car and our blue UK car registration form - V5C - we approached the special unit in Chinon for an MOT. We also took along the Certificate of Conformity from Honda UK, proof of our address in Cravant (utility bill) and proof of identity (passport). This took about an hour during which we wandered down the road for a coffee. Came back. Car had passed with flying colours and was awarded its Contrôle Technique.

Stage two of the process was to acquire what's called a Quitus fiscal.  Essentially it proves that your car is in good standing, tax/vat etc., and is required in France for the registration of a vehicle purchased either new or used in another country within the European Union.  For this we went to the Centre des Impôts in Chinon, taking with us the V5C, the original purchase invoice, proof of identity, Certificate of Conformity and proof of address in Cravant. Charming lady at Chinon. Very helpful. All was in order, so we then walked round the corner to the sous-préfecture where according to their website they would help us with stage three.

Stage three is the acquisition of a Carte Grise - an important document (as are all the others). It is the official title of ownership of a motor vehicle in France. The ladies at the sous-préfecture were again very helpful but most apologetic as they explained that this was no longer handled at Chinon and we would have to go to Tours. A day later we went to Tours by train. There isn't an appointment system for this sort of thing, so the earlier you go, the better chance you stand of being dealt with. For stage three we needed the Certificate of Conformity, the Quitus Fiscal, the Contrôle Technique Certificate, proof of identity, proof of address, the V5C and in addition the Certificat d'Immatriculation (number plate form), which is downloadable, fortunately from the internet.  There were only three people ahead of us. Our turn came. We explained to the lady behind the counter who, what, where etc., and gave her all the paperwork. It was all there and all correct. However she had never processed documents for an English car before. It took a little while. She again was very helpful, but there was so much information and small details to be transferred on to her system, that she got into a little bit of a muddle (we would have as well) and had to get some additional help.  Finally an hour later, we  moved to the next kiosk where we paid the tax on the car for France.  This time they keep the V5C, the Quitus Fiscale and the Certificate of Conformity. The carte grise is sent to you in the post. Ours arrived two days later. Very efficient.

So now to this afternoon, Tuesday 23 April. First of all we went to our regular insurers and got the car covered. The insurance lady Sophie is remarkably efficient, twenty years in the business, so very well informed and explained everything thoroughly. From the centre of Chinon we went to the outskirts, to a car accessories and garage place to see if they did number plates. They did.  We chose the style of number plate, gave them our carte grise so they could take down details for number plate printing, which they do on the premises in a matter of minutes. The old British number plates were removed and the new ones put on the car. The whole process took about twenty minutes.

It sounds very involved and paperwork heavy. Probably it is. Mike had done a brilliant job of researching on the web and luckily found a site written by someone who'd gone through the process.  Everything they'd learnt was on the site, so that those following in the same footsteps had an easy ride. Thank you!

As a result we had all the correct papers, got everything done in the right order, everyone was very helpful, no hitches anywhere and best of all, we're now legit on the roads here in France.

Five Star Accommodation - Goat Style

Went to the first of our portes-ouvertes today. It's somewhere we go to regularly for our goat's cheese, so already know it well. Vazereau at La Roche-Clermault is on the other side of the Vienne to Cravant. To get there we drive through Chinon and then turn left and cross over the river. Vazereau is a family business and successful. We could easily go to one of the big supermarkets and buy their cheese from there. Vazereau supply them all. But one of the things we really enjoy and prefer doing, is buying directly from the producer.  Fresh local produce is a well-established feature of our food chain and we like to support wherever and whenever possible by visiting the premises and meeting the people involved. It's a great experience.

Normally when we visit Vazereau it's just the shop that's open. They have at least thirty different

cheeses that are produced on site, as well as yoghurts and crème fraîche. For a porte-ouverte the whole site at Vazereau is open, offering guided tours round the goat pens, into the milking parlours and the processing parlours. Not sure how many goats Vazereau have in all, but being a perfect day, meaning sunshine, there were goats indoors and outdoors. By 10.30am which is when we arrived, the place was buzzing. The shop was packed. There were tastings of new flavours including one with echalottes, which was absolutely delicious. Fouèes were on offer and another producer from Vouvray was there with tastings of fizzy and white and rosè wines.  We're back in Chinon for lunch, so didn't get involved with food and wine tastings this time. Instead having bought a few things from the shop, we went for a walk round the goat pens which were under cover out of the sunshine.

All the goats looked in amazingly good condition. Most were totally dedicated to the business of eating, which on one occasion included my clothes. I got too caught up taking photos to notice that one of the goats had taken a liking to my jacket. Until I felt a violent tugging and looked down to see to the corner of my jacket disappearing into a hungry goat's mouth. Why it couldn't content itself with it's own food of which there was loads, I don't know.
I got my jacket back - unharmed.

A helpful touch

Something we've seen over and over again here in the supermarkets, the mini supermarkets and the market in Chinon, is the kindness towards elderly people who are on their own. Some of them are definitely older, whereas with others I imagine it is more a state of mind that comes with loneliness.  

Quite often a visit to the shops is the main social event of the week. Somehow the 'aloneness' of people, elderly or otherwise, isn't as obvious in your own country. Or maybe that's more to do with where we've been living. But in Chinon the patience and consideration in general towards the elderly, people who are disabled and individuals on their own, is evident. 

I saw it again this morning and last Thursday when we were shopping in the Chinon
market. Two elderly ladies on their own, who were finding the business of shopping and carrying it all a bit of an effort, and too tiring to then have to deal with the paying of everything. So in each case the ladies handed their purses over to the woman on the till, as in Carrefour this morning and to the greengrocer as in the market last week. It helps that the  two ladies shop regularly at the same place. It must make a difference to those involved. However the process takes a fair bit time and yet no one minds. Instead the other customers look on, as the amount of money needed is careful removed and counted out in front of the customer, accompanied by chats about the weather and other little details. It's lovely to see the time being taken in this way, when in fact it would be so much easier just to rush the ladies through.

The grand sort out - French side

For the first time in six years, I've had all my clothes together in one place. Mike's been telling me for ages that I've got too many, and now having them all here in front of me, I am reluctantly inclined to agree with him. There is a reason for it - apart from being westernly decadent. Having a split life has meant two lots of everything. We divided our belongings into two, prior to our move from London to Wiltshire and the house which we had built in France. Any items that didn't work in either space were given to someone, sold off or went to a charity. There were some we just didn't need in either place and others that we had to buy new for both places as the houses are very different in style and space and required a different approach. Clothes however were something else.

I attempted in 2007 to split things up between the British end and the French end. Favourite items demanded a different strategy. To duplicate, or not to duplicate that was the question. 'whether twas nobler in my mind to suffer the excesses of outrageous fortune' by doubling up, or simply to transport said favourite items at the appropriate time of year, bearing in mind that I had favourites in all the season. As it turned out, I did both.

Now of course, not only am I surrounded by clothes, but I've the duplicates to contend with as well. Suddenly the ridiculousness of my decisions is staring me in the face. Since Monday I have been sorting through clothes. We have limited storage space here, so 'colour coding 'has been key. Bit by bit I've reorganised and relinquished, and have so far delivered four bags of clothes to Emmaüs in Chinon, which is our local recycling depot. They take everything.

I felt really pleased with myself and yelled out to Mike  that I was on 'the last leg'. 
'Oh what's left to do ' he asked. 
'Tights and socks'. 
A loud groan followed. But at least he had the decency to admit it was worthy of one of his puns.

How can one week go so fast?

It's 8.30am here, so 7.30am in the UK. Brittany Ferries operate on British time, so you're in the UK time zone until you leave the boat. This time last week we'd been on the road in France for just over an hour. A week ago on Monday 10 April, the BOA house had been emptied. The next day it had been spring-cleaned. We'd taken the ferry that same night and in two hours time, we will have arrived in Cravant with our loaded car and begun the process of unpacking.

Where does a week go exactly? This one feels as if it's passed very quickly. Having a good time;  happy to be here; lots to do Yes - these things will have something to do with it. But even so, it's very difficult to fathom. Except when things haven't gone well or aren't quite right, in which case time seems to slow down and it seems to take for every for anything to happen. A cousin in South Africa has just won a golfing trophy at his club for the first time, which he's been trying to do for a few years. Bet his week has flown by since the day. He was soooo pleased.  Now his wife is away for a few days for work, so he's got work, house, their two sons to look after. oh and more golf probably. So I'd bet the few days Eleanor is away will fly by. How will those few days feel to her I wonder?

I remember the first time I read Lord of the Rings. This was ???? years ago. I had a day off and was at home initially. I picked the book up just with the intention of reading a chapter or two. Mike had left for work. I put the book down. Not only had I'd finished it in one session - it was now the afternoon. No sense of time at all. I'd been so engrossed I ended up not going anywhere except to our sofa - not even to make a cup of coffee.  Very strange business - time.

What a great book!

Have been catching up with some reading for our book club next week. Managed one book, when in fact they have three up for discussion. But with everything going on, and only one being downloadable to Kindle, that's the one we went for. And this time in English, rather than French. There hasn't been enough time to digest the French version. I finished the book a couple of days ago. Then Mike began and was instantly hooked. Loves it. 

So what's this gem that has so caught and held our attention.

The author is Henning Mankell, probably best known for his mystery novels and in particular, Inspector Kurt Wallander. A series on the Beeb that we have always managed to miss. The book we've been reading however is totally different. The Italian Shoes has not a single murder to be solved. The Guardian review refers to it as 'a standalone novel'. Don't want to say too much, but literally from the opening sentence to the final full stop, I just couldn't put it down. And that takes something for me to do. Although I appreciate the Kindle and use it regularly, it's not the same as the real thing. I so love the feel of a book and the act of turning the page. 

Anyhow The Italian Shoes is mesmerising and one of those novels where the landscape is as vital a character in the story as the humans. A story that is full of surprises, twists and turns. Sometimes very moving. 

Hardback, paperback or kindle version - give it a shot. 
And if you can resist it, don't read the links until you've finished the book. 
They will spoil the experience.

Boîte. . . sac . . . sac . . . boîte

Bonjour. . . from the other side of the channel. It's great to be here. The weather has been fantastic today, although lousy for the first few days. We've had all sorts of messages from local friends and the social whirl seems to have got going very quickly. 

The move was effortless. Not sure how many boxes we finally ended up with in storage - probably about twenty-five. That's after having had what we thought was a good clear-out with regular visits to the local charity shop. It's amazing the amount of stuff you collect and hoard. 

The car was loaded, but safely so. We still had to leave four of our own small storage boxes and one of my accordions with our friend John. We'll collect them when we're in the UK mid-June for a week.

Thinking about it we've been packing and unpacking for the last six years, if you include each time we've travelled to and from the UK. Unsurprisingly perhaps, it's a very pleasant feeling to be just in one place.  Except that now we've arrived, another sort-out is underway, although just bit by bit. 

We arrived mid-morning Weds 10 April. Thursday we went to Chinon for the weekly market, which is still really in winter mode. Fresh asparagus and strawberries are starting to appear. Then to one of our anglo-french groups for conversation and lunch. In the evening we went to the cinema - fabulous Hungarian film Just the Wind which won the Jury Grand Prize at the 2012 Berlin Film Festival. Based on actual events that happened in 2008/9, although the characters in the film are fictional. Saturday we met a friend for coffee in the morning, got change of address sorted out with our bank. In the evening we went round to a neighbour who is a wine producer - Patrick Lambert - for an apèro dinatoire with the family. Lovely evening. Today Sunday has been a beautiful day. We've been doing more sorting and gardening; paperwork. All the essentials. It's going to take a while.

Move Day!

Well today's the day.

' All our bags are packed, we're ready to go,
We're not quite standing outside our door
We're pleased to wake you up, to say goodbye
The dawn has already broken,
there's no taxi waiting or blowing his horn
We're so excited we could die'
(hackneyed lyrics based on John Denver's - Leaving on a Jet Plane)


The house here in BOA looks like a dump with bags and boxes everywhere.
So the plan is that the removal people arrive some time before 9.30am. Then we clear the place.
We're staying with local friends overnight. Then up again early tomorrow as people are coming in to
give the place a spring clean. Then that really is it, although we don't leave BOA until later for the overnight crossing. So the idea is I think to go into Bath, then come back here. Grab dinner somewhere and take off around 7.30pm.

Must admit the thought of being in one place, albeit temporarily, without the six weekly routine of packing and unpacking, rather appeals. 

So blogs away. Bye for the moment.

Normal and regular service will be resumed from Wednesday 10 April, from France.

Bises  à tous

Adding a ps. I'm not being disaparaging about the original song. Just my awful adaptation.

Bag,box. . .Box,bag 2

The youngest son of our next door neighbour in France, Lenny (after Lenny Kravitz) has his birthday in February. Just before we came back this last time to the UK, we gave him a copy of Bob the Builder, in English. Matteo, the older brother who is ten has been learning English at our village school for a few years. Lenny is just starting, so the two have been reading Bob the Builder together.

We had an email from their mother Isabelle a couple of days ago. Lenny has fallen in love with his Bob the Builder book and insists on sleeping with it. If told ' no you can't', Lenny starts wailing. He has a unique wail, which steadily winds-up until finally at full throttle, Lenny achieves air raid siren quality.  But it doesn't last long. The family have a neat way of dealing with him. Lenny is very ticklish and has learnt that it's impossible to wail effectively and laugh at the same time.

I have a book that was given to me when I was more or less the same age as Lenny is now, by my Aunt Hester, who like the rest of the family lived in Henley. She was for a long time, the local and much-loved school teacher. Her gift to me was The Wind in the Willows or in French, Le Vent dans les Saules.  I don't know what Aunt Hester would have made of my primary school English teacher, the formidable Mrs Chester. I can see her clearly in my mind's eye - sturdily built, 5'5" (1m65) and shrinking, very short wavy white hair and probably in her late 60s. Mrs Chester had asked us each to bring in a favourite classic novel and to find a short passage from it so that if she called our name, we could read out loud to the rest of the class. I took along The Wind in the Willows and was immediately informed that this book was not a classic. Guess who didn't get to read!

Regardless of whether The Wind in the Willows is or isn't a classic, I always loved the story and continue to read it once a year as it gets close to Christmas. There are wonderful moments in it, funny, scary, poignant and joyful.

I'm clearly attached to it and probably will remain so.  
But not enough to want to sleep with it.

Bag,Box. . .Box, Bag 1

An adventure in itself - packing. The perfect op for a sort-out and interesting discoveries.  
The 'lost world' of the airing cupboard has revealed one pair of knickers and three odd socks. Odd in the sense that they've lost their partners, rather than them being bizaare.

I'm wondering if 'Odd sock' syndrome is the true indicator of our decadent western life style. It's certainly an enduring problem. When did it begin exactly, this overly abundant, luxuriant supply of socks, that has lead to the callous indifference towards the individual? One sock goes astray leaving the other condemned to life, unloved, in the dark of the airing cupboard - sometimes for years.

'Odd sock' syndrome was something that annoyed my uncle. He was one of those brilliantly brained, ( in his case, a rocket scientist who worked for the British government) not mad, but certainly a charismatic individual, who I adored and who could be perplexed by the intricacies of domestic life.

He'd be somewhere or other during the week and returned home at the weekends. Every time we visited, the house seemed to have become an extension of his lab. I think my aunt found solace in the W.I.  However on one occasion, things went too far.  They lived in a five storey house in Henley- a nice expensive property by the river. My aunt finally lost it, when she returned from a shopping excursion to find my uncle had cut large holes in each of the floors, so that he could do a velocity experiment for his latest 'drop test' theory!  

Despite his wizardry with things scientific, my uncle could never understand how a pair of socks could be put into the washing machine and at the end of the cycle, only one came out. This was researched in some detail, with the holes in the floor doubling up for a 'washing socks' experiment, which also involved two washing machines being placed in the drive, with their cables neatly threaded back through the letter box into the house where they were plugged in and turned on.  Unlike his rockets the sock experiment was a disaster.

In the end for his peace of mind, my own and everyone else's, I gave him a sock holder for the washing machine, in the shape of two feet - left and right. Each sock was poked through a hole which held it in place while being pummeled, rinsed and spun. Between them, the feet could take five pairs of socks. Never a sock was lost in that household ever again.
A remarkably cheap solution in comparison to the repair costs for the floors.