Oh yes, forgot to say...

... I posted my response to Joe's question 'What are you waiting for?', over at 'Questions', at the Compasses blog. It was first written early in the New Year, and reminds me of that time, though it's been a little revised. But dread continues to mix with the anticipation of great joy.

Life getting in the way

The long and the short of it: Tom has shingles, which are horrible, now compounded by a chest infection. Then I crashed the car, properly this time, into the back of someone. Tea and sympathy are nice but not to the point. These lapses of attention are a worry, and I need to think very hard about how best to avoid them.

So we have been a sorry pair. But, as a friend who should know said, bad days are often followed by good, and luck may be on the turn. The car, battered old BX, is a write-off, but the insurance will give us 800 euros for it. The repairs were around the 2000 euro mark, a bit less with second hand parts, so we initially thought about repairing it anyway, if they'd let us, since we thought we probably couldn't replace it for the money. But then I had this vision, quite spontaneously. Of a little green Citroen Saxo.

I started looking at one or two secondhand car sites, not many Saxos round here, quite a few Renault Twingos, wasn't sure if I'd be able to persuade Tom to be seen dead in one of those, but they seemed a possibility, I think their total lack of cool means you can find them quite cheap. But one of the problems, which shouldn't be a problem but it is, is the right hand/left hand drive. I have never driven left hand drive. I should learn, I know, but frankly, with the knock to my confidence and Tom's worries, which are not sexist or patronising or unreasonable at all but based on experience and observation, about my driving lapses, now is not the time.

Then the idea occurred that some friends had found a RHD car through Anglo-Info, an expat's website. They hadn't been especially looking for RHD but had found a very good deal because of it. The 40 odd pages of small ads on the site were not in any particular order and without a search facility, so I had to scroll through sundry offers of tractor trailers, camper vans, motor bikes, battered old BXs to be broken up for spares, but at about ten o'clock last night on about the 19th page, I found a little green Saxo. Right-hand drive, French reg but English owned, about 12 years old, so not precious or bijou but still considerably younger than the BX, being passed on because a generous relative had donated another car, new tyres and a brand new Controle Technique (MOT equivalent, runs for two years), for about 1300 euros, at Loudeac, about ten miles from here. I e-mailed last night and heard back this morning that it is still available.

If the BX had died of natural causes, we wouldn't have cleared 800 euros on it. With the situation being as pressing as it is, and with other worries, and Tom really preoccupied with just getting well again, we won't spend a lot of time sentimentalising and grieving over the BX, which is only natural, as it's been with us for all our married life and we've had some wonderful times with it. I've ordered a book on safe defensive driving techniques and one on mindfulness in every day situations such as driving (though, as Tom said, one does have to remember to put them into action...). I even spoke to our doctor about the attention slips, fearing, since my father suffered from late onset petit mal epilepsy, that perhaps there was something going on. He listened and asked questions and took me seriously, advised vigilance and about warning signs, but said encephalograms were probably not yet called for.

I've not had much heart for blogging, things to be dealt with have just been worriesome, and at spare moments all I've wanted to do was curl up with a book, preferably one about the 12th century. My apologies about not being around are more for not visiting than not posting, but I hope the tide is turning now. I'm twiddling my thumbs now until it's a reasonable time to make phone calls, to a friend I hope will come with me to Loudeac to see the Saxo, to the seller, to our insurance agent, the lovely, gracious and ever-reassuring Simone who, by her virtues and proximity, ensures we probably pay a little over the odds for our insurance but its worth every penny to have her there, to say not to bother about finding out about fixing the BX, and to the garagist who will probably be relieved he no longer has to labour to keep that car on the road.

I'll let you know how I get on.

Chartres, a walk by the river.

As promised. Sorry I've not been around, life rather getting in the way. As it does.

Chartres: walls, and things on them, doors and windows.

I think I must start turning out the picture posts a bit quickly now, or else it'll be time for our next holiday before I've finished posting about this one.

John of Salisbury, Abelard's pupil, Becket's secretary, Bishop of Chartres, a great and gracious spirit by all accounts, the first really to speak of the shoulders of giants.

At twilight, ghosts

from the Vendôme porch, drift down the Rue St Pierre. They are ill at ease in their 15th century finery, they wander in search of a Book of Hours to make their home...

Herringbone bricks among the limestone,

doors,

and windows,

an amphibious spot,

and a faint heart,

limestone and limelight.

Tomorrow, perhaps, a walk by the river...

Yes, I'm still going on about Chartres, but I have to tell you about...

... le Clos Chedeville, the Bed and Breakfast where we stayed (the website has nice pictures of the interiors, and a good English translation).


It was possibly one of the best B&Bs we've known, and we've been to a few. If you're going to the town, I couldn't recommend it too highly.

The family were discreet and lovely, and the rooms, both the bedroom where we slept and the enormous breakfast room, were full of charm, and interesting objects and furniture in the case of the latter. the breakfasts were enormous, so we often filled our pockets with brioche and croissants for later - with permission of course!

We soon made ourselves at home...


(you can just see Mol in the corner of the pic, by the door, thinking 'I'll have that bloody Welsh springer if he comes any closer...')
And the very comfy bed, and cool limestone floor, were much appreciated after a hard morning foot slogging around the town (all dignity abandoned, Tom will curse me for this, Mol won't care).


It was completely enclosed in an enormous space, full of trees and established garden and birdsong, including a cuckoo, though very near to the centre of the town, with at least three different houses within it, two of which belonged to the family, plenty of parking space, and a secure gate with a code, so we almost exclusively left the car there and walked everywhere, saving ourselves petrol and parking fees. We had our own little space to sit on the terrace, where we could take in the Friday night boule game and generally enjoy the life of the place, without feeling either intruded or intruding on.

Three other dogs lived on the premises, including the aforementioned Welsh springer, and a wonderful old man yellow labrador with a great broad smile and an attitude that went beyond benign, who, by some inexcusable oversight, neither of us took a photograph of. Mme Chedeville always asked if Molly had slept well and been comfortable before thinking to ask us the same question, thereby endearing herself to us greatly.

But one of the best things about it for me was that it seemed to be situated in some kind of salvage yard,

(there are som box elder leaves in the one above...)

cum ecclesiastical heritage site, cum former cemetery.

The camera and I were in paradise!

I don't know why, but I never got around to asking Mme Chedeville the history of the place, and why they had a load of gravestones and other bits of church archaeology in their garden. Perhaps I felt it would take away some of the magic and mystery...