Breakfast on the road.

 

Breakfast on the road always tastes better. 

Some days, up early with a cup of black Earl Grey, I'd plan out my route and then drive until I found a suitable boulder or bench or wall to sit on. There I would boil the kettle and rifle through the panniers. If I had happened upon a patisserie I might have chosen something sticky and nutty, otherwise I'd put together my own sticky and nutty: slightly stale bread, under a golden drizzle of honey, sprinkled liberally with roasted peanuts and sliced banana.

 High above a town in the Lozere, buzzards mewed, a dragon fly rustled its dry wings and a bicyclist zipped past calling out "Bon appetit!"

I straddled the wall, pulling at the elastic bread with my teeth while peanuts rolled off, clanged onto my blue tin plate and bounced to the ground. 

Ants, alert to the scent of food, meandered and gossiped before marching off their spoils.

Fountain 8. Place de Couderc. Rue de 11 Novembre 1918. Recoules-Previnquires. 25th July

                              

 

The fountain in 1930

 and little has changed part from the height of the trees. The fountain flows, the shutters are open and geraniums smile at the morning sun. The small shop sells ripe nectarines and tomatoes. Bread crumbs gather by the till and large rounds of cheese are cut into manageable wedges before being wrapped in greaseproof paper. Quietly and sedately the villagers slip their baguettes under their arm, cross the square and chat in groups of two or three. Not animatedly, but earnestly nodding and taking turns to speak. The church clock strikes nine and instinctively I check my watch and wonder if it will open before I have finished my pre-breakfast wanderings.

 

 on July 25th  2013

                           

 

The fountain from the back and the monument from the front

 where a young man focuses into the distance as he prepares to throw a grenade. He holds a second explosive in his left hand. 

The proper way to launch this missile is to hold it against your chest while squeezing the "spoon" against the body of the grenade, and with the middle finger of the other hand pull and twist out the pin, whereas a "lefty" must hold the grenade upside down against his chest to remove the pin. Then, regardless of which hand it is in, quickly throw it while bearing in mind it has a seven second delay and take cover. According to an instructional video on YouTube it is important to take cover or "you could seriously hurt yourself."

Although explosives had been thrown for centuries, hand grenade designer, William Mills, patented, developed and manufactured the "Mills bomb" at the Mills Munition Factory in Birmingham in 1915. It was described as the first "safe grenade" and approximately 75,000,000 safe grenades were made and no doubt thrown at someone during WW1.

Below the soldier is a large plaque with the list of local boys who died, perhaps due to the unsafe grenades.

About fifty names were engraved and gold leafed. Nine families lost two boys. The Dalous family lost three: Andre, Joseph and Jules.

Fountain 8 - Rue 11th November 1918

I love my iPad.  However, its quirkiness and stubborn refusal to conform to my simple requests make me wonder how we would survive the storms of married life were it a man or I an iPad. My apologies for a messy and incomplete blog. Please forgive me this self indulgence. I fancied that I could look at art all day at the Venice Biennale and write my watery memoirs by night on this tethered architectural barque. But the stark truth is that I can't. It will have to wait a few days until I return to a more geologically stable island.

Fountain 7. Martyrs of Gabaude near Reilhac 24 July

                                                Niche Still Life, Reilhac Church

                        near Fountain 7, The Martyrs of Gabaudet (see original 24th July posting)

                              The sacred and profane indiscriminately cheek by jowl. 

                                                     Just like in real life.

                                 












                                 

        
     









                 

St. Vigan. Fountain 6. 24th July

My fountain diary entry: "not very special but I am here.

                      Our Lady of the Assumption church. 13th C, being restored and closed.
                       Pigeon in a plane tree."

And so I blithely write off an entire village. The millennia of births, deaths, loves and lusts, dreams and disappointments skimmed over using as much ink as would cover a lentil. I should be ashamed of myself and in part, I am. We all think our little moment on stage should steal the spotlight and send the review columnists into a fever. But the fact is we are often forgotten as soon as the curtain falls.

However, I now realise that somewhere in the repeat play loop of my brain I remember a vignette.
A dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties, wearing a white cotton shirt that is fluttering in the breeze of her open window,  is looking at me as she drives past in a green Renault Megane. I am standing by the fountain longing that the water were potable. We look at each other for about five seconds as she changes from first to second gear. She has passed me before my brain suggests that I could smile at her. Or nod. Or make any small sign of acknowledgement. Nevertheless, she has been recorded and I will no doubt, from time to time, replay this loop until my curtain falls.

Sarlat-la-Caneda. 24th July Fountain 5

 The Fountain Aux Heroes aux Martyrs de la Liberation de l'Arrondisement de Sarlat with its long lists of dead young men. Cars and motorbikes congesting the road before the pedestrian area begins and calms the impeccably restored and preserved medieval centre, turn just before passing this monument. The noise is there, but the view is relatively peaceful. Which feels an ironic choice of words.  According to Wikipedia, Sarlat is on France's Tentative List for future nomination as a UNESCO World Heritage site due to the enthusiasm of writer, resistance fighter and Minister of Culture (1960–1969) Andre Malraux, who restored the town and continued resisting the destruction of his country. Bravo.



                                                       
                                                        The Lively Men of Sarlat

  

    An entertainer blood chillingly, yet unflinchingly, twists balloons and fills the town

 with serious faced children wearing ridiculous crowns.

   

Street seller holding my pastry parcel, a specialitie de la maison made 

by his wife from the walnuts he has grown.

                                                
                                      An animated group of gilt Apostles in the cathedral,
                                   still lively after 500 years of uninterrupted gesticulation.

no making love in the boats

Misunderstanding a language is often more entertaining.