Day 1 - Lyzëa

Link: Day 1 - Lyzëa

All those baby photos in one comfy package…

Lyzëa - first day on earth

Baby photos - don’t you just love ‘em?

Well look, it doesn’t happen often does it? That very first day on earth?

As much as I love babies (er… a touch of sarcasm there) this one does seem rather fetching.

You won’t often hear me say this, so make the most of it.

Of course, I haven’t been involved with the mucky bits as yet. And that is not an invitation…

Us grandparents keep ourselves to the clean and pleasant bits

The actual parents meanwhile have a beatific glow around them

Lets hope that they can keep that smile through the noisy smelly bits

So best of luck to Sophie

and Ulrich

not forgetting Lyzëa

Down on the Farm.

Much of my life has been spent ‘down on the farm’, so you’d think I’d have had enough of it by now, wouldn’t you?
There is a certain misconceived romantic view of working on farms. For me it could mean farm visiting in 'normal’ hours and shoving my arm up a hundred cows’ bums. It sometimes meant farm visiting at 3 o'clock in the morning and shoving my arm up other parts of their anatomy.

Either way, a lot of arm-shoving was involved.

Well, it’s been a long time since all that deeply engaging animal immersion took place. I think I must either be 'over it’ or possibly just slightly unbalanced, but I’m heading off to the farm again. This time, to live there.

This is a huge project. It may have charm and character, but this old farmhouse and outbuildings also has termites, rot, damp, and a certain 'sixties’ style imposed on it.

Our job is to delve deep into the heart of these buildings and find its soul. A bit like arm-shoving again.

Generally, things do not move fast in the South of France. 'La semaine prochaine’ (next week) is a phrase oft uttered. Our experience with builders here in laid-back land has been more than exasperating, it has cost us dearly. This slow learning experience has, at last, sunk in. We have finally found the exception. A team of builders that work so fast and intelligently that my eyes water at the thought.

Thus, what was to be a two year project, looks to be finished this year!

After two weeks, the demolition has been finished, a new drainage system in place,

the outer walls damp-proofed below ground with a meticulous eye to detail that I have never seen before, and the extension to the future snooker room already is up to ceiling hight.

Oh. Did I forget to mention that they are Portuguese? The normal French (or British) response to a requested change; “Oh, I don’t know about that” whilst scratching head. With these guys it’s “Anything is possible”.

Just watching them is exhausting. They work a twelve hour day, six days a week. So to recover, we wandered down to the village for a meal Al Fresco on the beach of the Aveyron.

So, a moment to relax before heading back to watch them work again, maybe with a little wallpaper-stripping thrown in. Hard work? Not, I think, like shoving arms up bums…

Speed King

Speed is not something generally associated with me of late, being much reduced with broken bones and coughs. 

Well, times they are a’changing. I’m moving from Bob Dylan to Deep Purple…

Goodbye “Knock-knock-knockin’ on heavens door”’ - Hallo “I’m a speed king, see me fly”

Last Xmas, Sophie & Ulrich surprised me with a voucher to drive a Ferrari. OK, I know, you guys have all done it before, but for me; a first. 

At the time, my health wasn’t up to sitting in a car and moving at speed, so I waited cautiously until last week - coincidentally the 200-day anniversary of continuous hacking thanks to the old whooping cough. I’m fine, thanks for asking…

It was well planned. Setting off hesitantly, I soon mastered keeping the engine running for several seconds at a time. Heading off in the direction of Toulouse, I rapidly made the speedo register above zero. Closer examination showed the minimum speed available was 50 kph. There was a lot of space left on that dial.

“This is Jolly” I thought. “I’m really going for it now”.

I was beginning to relax. “This is easy” I thought. Not too fast, load of noise. Simple.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, my team of experts were scanning the local neighbourhood for police radars.

We turned off towards Albi, still pootling along but making a great deal of noise about it. A passing car flashed “all clear”, my copilot, studying his radar detector told me to turn back toward Montauban, then “floor the accelerator".

“OK” I said in my best French. “Did you mean push that flappy thing all the way down?” I asked. 

He said something that I presumed meant yes, so I did.

SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT

Those things can go really fast. I mean Really. Fast. Really. 

Thankfully I was wearing my brown trousers.

My Portable Weather-Forecasting Device

It is oft said that the English talk incessantly about the weather.

Perhaps not everyone has met Annick.

Conversations often start with something like “Hi! It’s 32 degrees here…”

Well, who can blame her. Flitting between the Wye Valley, Montauban and the Pyrénées is bound to destabilise our internal temperature controls. This ability to adapt to changing temperatures will prove important in our future survival of the coming apocalypse as foretold by some, (mostly Ruth actually). Despite the ever-present doom, we have proven ourselves able to live in the most diverse regions of the planet. However, it does take time to adapt. For instance, those living on the coast may have to adapt by growing gills or maybe just evolving longer legs.

Predicting the weather will become ever more important. We have already moved on to more accurate predictors than seaweed. ‘Green and wet’ might be a useful indicator in Wales, but elsewhere, greater accuracy is required.

Thus the creation of ‘portable weather-forecasting devices’.

Many use their phones for determining rainfall etc. This has proven to be nearly as accurate as looking out of the window. (There is even an app that looks like a window opening to show the weather outside…)

My portable device is called Sky:

Sky, so named because of her meteorological abilities (I actually wanted to call her River, but was outvoted. As it turns out, her water divining abilities would have made this name fit perfectly…) She is the ideal portable device, in that she can actually move of her own volition, although getting her into the car occasionally requires a fork-lift truck. 

Here’s how this device works:

Rain. If raining or looking like rain, no way on earth will she go outside, short of the aforementioned fork-lift truck. If rain starts whilst already outside, her coat changes accordingly:

High Temperatures: At any temperature above 30 degrees celsius, Sky becomes immobile. Up to about 35 degrees she lies on her front and pants , above this she schlumps onto her side. The only force available to move her in this state is, you guessed it, food.

Cold. This feature is a little buggy as Sky is well endowed with modern insulating layers. This is ideal for cold weather conditions, thus allowing her to run around whilst Pippa shivers. Unfortunately she has also been known to run at other times. The tell-tale sign of low temperatures is that anyone taking her for a walk wears a coat…

Snow. Sky LOVES snow. She goes into fits of ecstasy, rolling and squirming oblivious to all potential dangers, including any readily available precipices…

Wind. Yes, Sky definitely wins in this department. Difficult to photograph however…

Last week over here in France, we have been hit with an unexpected heat wave. Early June and temperatures in the upper 30’s may sound great, but does come with its downside. We knew it was hot because Sky was flat out panting on her side. We, too, were flat out, but for us panting is not an option. Sweating is. Our unprepared state also included mosquitoes. They arrived in their thousands (well, one or two mosquitoes buzzing in the middle of the night can seem like thousands). Adapting to ‘mozzies’ is another habit we take for granted. keeping doors and windows shut at dawn and dusk, plugging in the mosquito killers, these things are not usually necessary in June. Oh dear.

Our short term solution was to leg it to the Pyrénées. As usual there was significant temperature drop, making life once more bearable and allowing the hounds to reboot their scampering mechanisms..

…whilst Sky tried out her heat reducing tactics…

Even us humans managed to get off our bottoms and go for walks. (Photos of us walking were often photo-bombed)

Up in the mountains, we were reminded that the sun can be crowded out by clouds.

On return to Montauban, the heat also returned. But there were finally signs of change…

Perhaps, therefore, the vomiting and diarrhoea suffered by one of our hounds was simply the ‘Device’ informing us of a change of weather. I think that maybe this function should be made optional.

Phil

How Blue is my Valley?

Another week in Wales with its abundance of colour, verdant growth, family and friends. The woods behind our cottage are brimming with abundant bluebells…

Although photographing them in dull light with Gill & Paul’s manic dog Sadie constantly photo-bombing is far from easy.

We started the week with a walk on the wild side in the Brecon Beacons with Jon and Lisa, hunting caves and waterfalls.

Close to the edge…

… down by the water.

The local flush toilets were somewhat basic…

so Lisa holds on…

Then back to the cottage where the garden has burst into multiple vivid colours.

The cottage is soooo relaxing. Even the visit of two Jehovah’s Hypocrites didn’t dampen proceedings. It is always amusing to speak to those who can deny a massive body of evidence in favour of a dusty old book.

Starting the conversation with “Are you a spiritual man?” probably didn’t help their cause. Then coming out with the old “Evolution is just a theory” line led me to respond with the usual “Gravity is just a theory, so go and prove your faith by jumping off a cliff” routine…

Maybe they were not converted to the church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, but I did get one to promise that he would read a real book on evolution AND actually read ALL that book of theirs, including the gory bits.

The other guy wasn’t so inclined to rational discourse, but I did adversely affect his blood pressure, especially when I benevolently forgave him for becoming angry……

We also met with another born again soul. This time it was Carl, back from the North American colonies to visit his old haunts before once more going back to his new home in the near-Arctic.

It was a busy week, with the usual crowd giving us a send-off evening of the usual depravity. Back to France to recover…

The valley may be green, but blue rules ok?

… until the next time …

Phil

The Hermit Hunter: The Cabin in the Woods

This soon to be released follow up to ‘The Troll Hunter’, is based on a true story. Here, for the first time, is the full adventure with shots taken from the film.

May contain spoilers…

Many years ago, there was a revolution.

The 1960’s and early 1970’s were a time of peace, love and flower power. Apart, that is, from the bits not involving love, peace and flowers, of which, come to think of it, there were quite a few…

This was the generation that would change the world, that would halt its materialistic excesses, that would make weed a vital part of life, that would bring karma to all mankind.

That worked well didn’t it?

As time passed, most left the path of righteousness writ deep by those such a Bob Dylan (“I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinking”) and Jimi Hendrix (“never mind, I’ve still got my guitar”). Instead of Nirvana and a need for weed, they discovered Motörhead and a need for filthy lucre.

And so it goes.

Except, that is, for the very few. A small number of this Hippie generation discarded the mainstream mantra, and headed for the hills to start a new life, a life without the constraints of modern living, a life grasped from the soil itself.

After some months or occasionally years, most of these naïve souls discovered that such a life lived this way was not so easy. No gas, no electricity, no TV, no phones, no episodes of 'the Voice’. Just labour.

A few, a very few of them stayed the course. What of them? Are they really still there? Do they really exist or are they simply a story made up by parents to scare their children? Hidden well away from society, are these very few still scraping an existence from nature, their own children now grown and flown the nest?

This story is about the search for those few rare souls. Are they myth or memory? This is the story of the 'Hermit Hunter’…

We had heard rumours of a family of hermits hidden deep in the Pyrénéen mountains. Planning our hunt for them took years. First we needed a base camp. This we found near an outpost called le Couéou, meaning literally the arse-hole of nowhere. A clue for sure.

 

Our first attempt ended in disaster. Mistakenly thinking that we could find such reclusive men by car, we found ourselves trapped high on a mountain track in thick snow. (The full story here).

 

Realising that a different approach was called for, we purchased a quad motorbike and readied ourselves with a final meal.

 

Setting off in the early hours we initially found nothing but dead-ends. The forest tracks seem to be everywhere but go nowhere…

 

..although nowhere in itself can be quite beautiful…

 

Then, after travelling what seemed hours along a narrow track with vertiginous drops and crazy views…

 

…we found another clue…

 

Surely this totem meant we were nearing our goal?

Without warning (apart from Ian crying “Help!” from the back of the quad), we stumbled upon a hidden shack.

 

Approaching with care, we searched for clues as to the cabin’s inhabitants. It was certainly very remote. Access nearly impossible without special care and suicidal tendencies.

The first results were encouraging. The hygiene facilities were somewhat basic…

 

However, upon sneakily entering the cabin, we noticed certain clues that forced us to reevaluate our discovery.

The carton of milk on the table seemed unlikely to come directly from a cow.

The camera gear on the table appeared not to be homemade.

The table itself was indeed a pool table.

Finally, the cabin owner who at that moment appeared without, thankfully, shotgun in hand, proffered us a beer that looked suspiciously mass produced.

 

We had failed. We needed a new plan.

We decided that the only way left to us, was to follow tracks found in the forest on foot, to discard our modern machinery and head off into the forest fully provisioned for a 10-minute walk (family joke).

Our adventure did not start well. We had hardly gone 10 meters before our female members needed a break. Luckily a well designed local amenity was at hand…

 

With some gentle persuasion and not a little swearing, we set off once more.

Our next stop was an ancient stone refuge with wooden roof, rumoured to once belong to our quarry.

 

From there, we followed a narrow track deep into the forest, heading up stream until we found an old but working flour mill, clearly constructed without use of modern tools. At last! A real clue!

 

Crossing the stream, we climbed steeply uphill until finding a wood store containing freshly cut wood. Our pulses hammering, (part exhilaration, part being completely knackered), we continued on until stumbling into a small garden and, more importantly, its owner. Both of us were somewhat shocked, myself because I never really thought we could possibly achieve our goal, and he because he had not seen another human (apart from his wife who then came meekly out to join us) in many years.

 

Well, a couple of days anyway…

Our hunt was a success. This cabin had built 32 years ago by this couple after living previously in the refuge we had earlier discovered. They had survived there totally self-sufficiently, raising and educating eight children, all of whom had now left for pastures greener (literally, 5 have become shepherds). They produced or made all their own food without the use of electricity or modern machinery. They kept their own goats, fowl, rabbits etc and had only recently lost their horse.

'Mitten’, for this was his name, now at the age of 65, once a mathematician, had built the house and everything in and around it, including his own glasses! His wife Natalie brought out some gorgeous home made-lemonade to celebrate our arrival.

Annick was so excited she immediately blurted out several slightly impertinent questions such as “Is it true you have eight children?” and “Is there nothing else to do here?”

We discovered that they had come as a group of like-minded friends to escape the chains of civilisation, she a young actress with much to live for. They had helped each other build houses (one of which burnt to the ground, so they simply rebuilt it) gradually moving apart to achieve even further isolation. They had chosen this spot deep in the forest on the side of a steep valley because… well, frankly I’ve no idea really. It seems a little daft to me, but maybe I’m wrong. They pay no taxes of any kind but live as one with the forest. Their home in winter is completely cut off from any hope of reaching the nearest village.

They were clearly very happy.

We left with an air of euphoria having achieved our goal and maybe because of something in the lemonade…

On our return to base-camp, several hours later (something fairly typical for my 10-minute walks) we sat around the table to discuss our momentous find. We had so many remaining questions as to how they could survive in such an isolated place. And I mean seriously isolated.

 

We will one day return to ask those remaining questions.

Like, what to you do with a bloody great dead horse in the middle of the forest?