Sunflowers, unicorns, ladders and toad.

Just some later summer sunflowers, before they go.

Warm woollen mittens: the latest gift knitting, in an attempt at a cute, tasteful, trendy-knitting-book-style, still life. Not well done really, that edge of the the mat adjacent to the mittens is compositionally very irritating.

However, I was quite pleased with the mittens themselves, and thought perhaps they merited some coordinated props, blue china fragments, marbles, a late hydrangea head, and some old books, the ones one's mother read from in an old-fashioned, spoiled and sheltered childhood spent immersed in a mythos of horses and the countryside, some of the time at least: Kilvert's Diary, Borrow's Wild Wales, Lamb's Essays of Elia, and of course Jerry, the Story of an Exmoor Pony (or maybe the top one is Samuel Butler's Erewhon, which in fact I've never read and which doesn't really conform to the nostalgic, bucolic, middle class English idyll of the others, but it was still a bookshelf familiar from my personal Olden Days, and anyway, it's blue). 

The knitting is for a grand-daughter's eighteenth birthday in a couple of days, I'm fairly certain this won't spoil any surprises and that she doesn't read here, as I understand she is something called a Youtube vlogger and so probably ignorant of the very existence of old-fashioned blogs in general and this one in particular.  She's a dear girl anyway and fond of unicorns, I believe, or she was five minutes ago but not any longer and I'm probably hopelessly out of touch. She was very appreciative of her very long Hufflepuff scarf for her sixteenth anyway ("one of the best things I own") and still wearing it sometimes, even in the aforesaid vlogs, so I'm hoping she'll humour me. The original design, a very basic chart, was for horses but I converted it to unicorns, and made the rest of the details up.

They are even lined, an exercise I rather enjoy when the fancy takes me, as it involves knitting a smaller mirror image, second mitten attached to the first, which is then turned inside out inside it, as it were.

The fibre of the linings is made from the hair of humanely reared, free-range, gently combed unicorns.

Tom's constructive endeavours have been rather more practically useful; re-roofing part of our corrugated iron hangar barn in clear pvc.

I did in fact spend a fair amount of time up a parallel ladder myself holding ends up, standing at the bottom of his passing things, lying on the corrugated iron holding things down, and generally being an unskilled roofer's mate, a job which took me back a bit. (I know the photos look a bit pale, I lightened them up lot as they were too dark and shadowy, being contre-jour).

Last oddment, toad in the hole:

Quite a small one, with pretty little coppery eyes. I thought it might be one of the midwife toads which we hear chirping and chiming all spring and summer long but rarely see, but the eyes give it away: midwives are unusual among batracians  in having a vertical dark pupil/eye slit. It took up residence one day below a rose bush, but was gone by the next morning.

Off in a day or two to the Low Countries with high hopes, for a little while. Staying on-line but still somewhat scarce. Be seeing you.

Foot update, book in the post, February collage

Uncertain whether I shouldn't be doing more about The Foot, but disinclined to drag The Patient off to doctors or x-ray clinics, since clearly it was better when rested and kept on the horizontal or slightly above, I decided on the Monday to consult our lovely pharmacy, a thriving and lively place. The Patient himself hit on the rather intelligent idea of taking a photo of the extremity in question and showing it to them. I shall spare sharing the actual images here. The pretty dark haired assistant pharmacist, who was wearing a beautiful dark blue handknit cowl, listened carefully, winced and grimaced at appropriate moments of the narrative, responded enthusiastically to the photographic evidence, and told me we had done all the right things, that there was indeed little to be done about a broken toe, that an x-ray would only confirm what we already knew, and that it should be better in ten days to three weeks. The only additional recommendation was an ice pack three times a day regardless of The Patient's objections ('Pas de glaçons sur mon pied!' I mimicked, with the invisible translation switched on retrospectively), and free-and-for-nuffink they supplied us with a set of cannes anglaises for as long as needed.

After a few days of The Patient lugubriously insisting that it was never going to get well, he is now moving much better and getting about in the house without the aid of the cannes, so now we're back on track, though I had to bring in the wood and take out the rubbish myself for a while.

~

Another nice and flattering surprise in the post.

As I mentioned before, Charles Davis asked for the photo a few weeks ago, but he said it would only be for an e-book, so I was very pleased be given a proof copy of it in print, not only to gratify my vanity about the photo but because I was struggling to read it in the PDF format on my old-fashioned grey-faced Kindle.

Charles is dissatisfied with and rather cast down about the book, which I know he's been working on for quite a while, he says it's irretrievably flawed. Initially he didn't expect to have it in print at all, but it is now available, very reasonably, from an independent publishing source via Amazon. So far, his deprecation of it notwithstanding, I'm thoroughly enjoying it. It's set on the Mont St Michel in the early seventeenth century and described as ' a ludibrium or capricious game, a classic adventure story informed by riddles, myths and conspiracies', and though it is certainly something of a colourful and mischievous romp, and will, according to the rather spoilerish blurb on Amazon, get even more lurid, it's also typically full of fascinating, unexplored corners of history, with alchemy and threads of gnosticism and such like, undercurrents of ideas and counter-history flowing in and out like the partially hidden and deceptive currents and streams in the sands around the Mont (which was why he wanted the photo, though that wasn't taken there but some way further west into Brittany). I do like exploring these obscure backwaters of history and ideas and belief very much, but so often fiction that uses them is just unreadable, badly written, portentous rubbish. Charles' writing though is so classy, sharp and witty and ironic, his dialogue crisp and satisfying, his characters likeable and solid, his research and learning, though worn quite lightly, so meticulous and informed with an awful lot of legwork (literally, he's a world class walker and his bread-and-butter writing is walking guides), it seems a great shame he's not better appreciated. 

'You do not take literature seriously, Dom Robert.'

'On the contrary, I take it so seriously that I am persuaded that the highest literature is also the most lighthearted, floating in the ether while the weighty tomes of moralists slough aobut at their authors' feet before sinking without trace. Read Rabelais, read Cervantes. Wisdom weighs lighter than folly.'

[Pilgrim of Love, Charles Davis.]

~

Time for a belated collage for the month of February.

1. Early daffodils up the road, always among the first I see.
2. Mending.
3. Some 'flowers' for the guest room, hebes and hellebores, whiteish and purple the only actual blooms, otherwise rosehips, bay and acanthus leaves, dogwood seed heads.
4. Doggies on the beach.
5. Beautiful Milly.
6. Seashells collected and left on the windowsill, they're still there.
7. Jantien's exhibition. Our friend Jantien Kahn is doing another residency at la Résidence in Moncontour, this time with her partner Jessie Ehlhart (website in Dutch), who is using the opportunity to develop her work as a musician and sound artist. They too, like our other visitors, have been brave birds of passage, appearing on out doorstep against the season and cheerfully bringing late winter/early spring cheer and doing our hearts good. I'll try to get a post done about their opening night, though it was a few weeks ago now...
8. La Polyclinique where Tom had his eyes done. It really is a very pleasant building, full of light and giving out onto sweeping views, about a central well,
9. which has this cheerful mural, featuring the rather unlikely scenario of seagoing fishing boats on the nearby lac de Guerledan.
10. Still bare trees outside the windows, shining with rain, which I didn't quite capture, but the little yellow orb of flare charmed me somewhat.
11. Grey hat.
12. Wet muddy field.

Now March marches on, and we sat outside in the garden for an hour or two today, though it's good to come in to the fire too.

The perils of creative mending and rather too appropriately named slipper socks

With thanks for all the good wishes and concern extended to Tom regarding the eye surgery; he is seeing better than for many a long year and drove the car the other day. He has in fact detailed his experience at his place here, with a few sometimes eye-watering photos taken, at his request, by me, of which I shall only feature this one,

~

to illustrate how seriously the medical services take the matter of healthy eating. In fact quick and simple sucrose and fructose and plenty of caffeine are really just what you want after hours of fasting and minutes of minor anaesthetic, but I munched on my oatcakes and apple and felt virtuous.

Unfortunately the new lease of life afforded him by his new vision rather came a cropper and ended in tears, or at least groans of agony, and this was in part my fault, owing to my particular current preoccupation with creative mending. 

This has led me of late to the embellishment of an old blue lambswool sweater gone into holes (perhaps moth, but then it was 30% nylon so I doubt it, probably just a cheap sweater in the first place) with small flowers,

which remind me a little of tattoos, but without the commitment, and also, would you believe, to this rather kitsch patching which has rendered new tea towels for old:

Yes, I know, you're asking what kind of bored do you have to be to patch tea-towels? It's not like I don't have any new ones, I frequently come across and buy very tasteful ones in discount stores for next to nothing, grey ones with red embroidery, ochre coloured waffle ones, black gingham ones... trouble is they're all so pretty I can't quite bring myself to wipe up with them but instead use them as alternatives to wrapping paper at Christmas or just leave them in the cupboard. But I actually like these old towelling ones, they are efficient, and yes, I know my hygienically evolved transatlantic friends and anyone else with a dishwasher, ( ie mostly everyone) shudder at the thought of wiping up at all, but I'm very particular about rinsing and draining and changing the towels, and glasses are so much better wiped immediately very hot with a clean cloth.... and it's so annoying when your fingers go through them, and anyway I felt like doing something idle and whimsical one Sunday. I was somewhat inspired by Tom of Holland's visible mending programme, and the double thickness parts are actually rather good for purpose.

So, anyway, when the house socks which I made Tom for his last birthday from thick old short staple vintage wool

got sloppier and sloppier, and he asked me if I could perhaps shrink them a bit in the machine, and I did so rather too zealously so they turned into stiff little felt bootees which I can barely get on and he certainly can't,

I sought to make it up to him by converting the his Irish wool hiking socks which had already been darned more than once, and, New Testament style, gone into holes around the darns, into slipper socks, by sewing on soles cut from an old felted sweater, my go-to material for many creative projects. He liked them very much.

Thus slickly shod, full of enthusiastic, newly re-visioned zest for life, and taking it at a run, he misjudged something crucial and slithered down the last several stairs, whacking his foot on a wooden post so that a middle toe stuck out bizarrely and was clearly broken. 

Now Tom breaks toes about as often as I smash up cars, it's less expensive but more painful (maybe, though psychologically perhaps not...), we know what it looks like by now. No hope of medical attention on a Saturday evening and not much to be done anyway, so I slathered bruise gel everywhere possible, strapped the wonky toe to its neighbours, dosed him with tea, sugar, aspirin and whiskey, and there he is, still fairly cheerful but stopped in his newly refurbished tracks. I'm looking into bathroom silicone as a means of making non-slip soles.

Knitwear, eyes and thumb-twiddling

Modelling some new knitwear - hope the destined recipient doesn't look at this before it gets there.

Me: Alas my love you did not marry a beauty.

Tom: Aw, you've got character.

Me: Like Peggy the boxer has character?

Tom (dreamily): I loved her!

Me: And she was told how pretty she was several times every day.

We both go into a reverie thinking about this.

And I finished a pullover, big and sloppy as usual, maybe one day I'll manage something that fits, but I've always liked big and sloppy anyway.

~

Now thumb-twiddling waiting to head of for Pontivy for the second of Tom's eye-gougings, administering the barrage of drops at five minute intervals. A month of worry about worsening discomfort around the first eye done, the surgeon having buggered off on holiday, was resolved on his return when he took one look at said puffy and inflamed organ and said, oh, yes, you're allergic to the anti-inflammatory drops, stop using them for the next one, they're not that important anyway. Not macular oedema then? I asked, and he gave me that a-little-learning-is-a-dangerous-thing look that doctors do and confirmed it was not.

I'm better equipped this time anyway, with two lots of knitting, the Kindle, a three day old copy of Ouest France, an apple and a packet of Nairns cheesy oatcakes (thanks G and A). Oh and a camera, by special request. Back anon.

Oh sod it it'll have to be some knitting

Can't seem to get a proper post together, so it'll have to be some more knitting, including Tom in a hat.

The hat in this picture in fact, featuring all Tom's knitted Christmas presents, none of which were ready in time for Christmas:

These items include the epic merino/cotton half fisherman's rib sweater I think I mentioned a while back, which just about came out OK, proves not to have enough warmth in it to be worn just now, and I was so fatigued by the sight of it after about half a million tiny half-fisherman's rib stitches by the time I'd finished that I was not sorry to see it put away for a bit. Also featured are a pair of green and black striped thick socks, and said hat.  This is the second hat I have attempted to make for Tom; the first was too big, too fuzzy, too fussy and, ultimately therefore, too feminine. Odd this masculine/ feminine knit thing, it really is quite delicate, anything too fuzzy and chunky, however sombre the colour or plain the stitch, is just not right. Tom didn't complain of it in those terms, but nevertheless that was the fact. 

This one, however, seems to have worked. The red and grey pattern was derived from an old chart to be found on the Estonian museums public portal. Despite careful transcribing of it onto big squared paper, my maths still let me down and there's an odd jog in it so it doesn't flow freely round the hat, but Tom, like Eric Morecambe, says you can't see the join. Also by the time I'd accomplished three repeats of it the hat was already too long so I had to rather hastily bring it to a conclusion by means of gathers rather than decreases, but, even so, it is a satisfactory garment and has already been christened on a wet and windy beach.

The other noteworthy thing about it is that I started and completed it in a single day on New Year's Day, which listening to BBC Radio 4 FM's all day dramatisation of Tolstoy's War and Peace, which was very good, and which the sight of the hat will always bring back to me. I did take a break to eat mid-evening and so missed the battle of Borodino. (Finding that link has just revealed to me that the actor playing Pierre Bezukhov, Paterson Joseph, is black. I love radio.)

So here is Tom wearing his hat (I've noticed he's often a crowd pleaser, so I'm shamelessly exploiting this):

'I see no ships'

Monday, Tom's cataract op. As predicted, considerably less painful than going to the dentist, though an awful lot of eye drops and waiting around and going hungry, though he was given a nice petit dejeuner of orange juice and coffee with lots of sugar and a little madeleine cake like the one Proust had from Aunt Léonie, as well as the mars bar I brought for him.

So last night I felt like I was living with Mad-eye Moody,

but this morning he has two eyes again, and the one worked-on, while sore, seems to be clearing quite hopefully. 

Everyone at the clinic was lovely.

Eyes

We went to the doctor yesterday for our flu jabs and to talk about Tom's eyes. The appointment was for midday. He never used to have appointments, you just turned up and waited your turn; he still doesn't have a receptionist but takes calls himself or his wife fields them sometimes. She's a bit fierce and protective when she does, and he tends to pull a face and say not to take any notice of her.  He also used to freely make house calls. Our first winter Tom was ill, mostly from exhaustion, and Dr le G called in twice a day, unasked, for several days, clearly worried about the clueless and shattered English couple living in a draughty damp shack with the roof half-off. He's a dear, dear man from a family for whom caring and service and civic-mindedness are central to their lives, I used to teach his cousin who was a retired primary teacher, they always spoke glowingly of each other. But he's getting tired, we think, and despondent.

He was running about forty minutes late, which was already taking us well into any sensible person's lunchtime, but there were still people coming through the door. It's partly his own fault, he will chat away with you as though he had all the time in the world. We showed him the optometrist's note, which he said was readable and usable in French, but his response as to how we should proceed was a near-hopeless shrug. Surgical ophthalmologists with free appointments are rare as hen's teeth, we would need to search around, he didn't refer, but we could forget St Brieuc... perhaps Pontivy? No probably not, try Rennes, or Nantes... but beware those who weren't conventionnés (state covered) they could charge what they liked. Cataracts aren't considered urgent, but of course they are when they begin to interfere with driving and other necessary functions.

Everything is overloaded, he went on, not enough doctors anywhere, look at all the people out there in the waiting room, he should have been finished by 12.15, and he'd be back tonight till nine o'clock.  He stuck our jabs into our arms while still grumbling. Tom didn't feel his, I did, in and out, but today he feels bleary and queasy while I just feel a bit as though someone's punched me in the arm.  We appreciate having them anyway, two for the price of one as Tom's is free.

Dr le G is probably still a few years off retirement, when he takes it, as his cousin MH said, there won't be another like him, and indeed, there might not be another in that surgery, since there are fewer and fewer generalists available for the more rural practices, which is why he's busier and busier, as he's taken on patients from other doctors round about who have retired or moved on.

This morning I researched around a bit as to where the operating eye doctors might be. I looked despondently at the clinics in Rennes, I really hated the idea of that drive, especially in the winter, and trailing there on the train didn't seem a great idea. One could perhaps stay over... I tried St Brieuc anyway on the off-chance, but the answering machine in the hospital department wasn't even taking messages, there were no appointments, not now nor in the foreseeable, it told me. From when I had a threatening retinal tear a couple of years ago, I didn't imagine the private clinics would be a much better story, and the doctor had warned us off them rather as possibly unregulated as far as charging was concerned.

I had a look on AngloInfo forums. One or two people spoke well of the new clinic in Pontivy, so I thought it might be worth a try, and it's not too far. I carefully wrote out my enquiry, a thing I rarely bother to do now but I wanted to sound clear and not too easy to put off. Is there any possibility of an appointment at all? I asked and waited to be told it was out of the question. Yes, said the secretary, who I had got through to in a couple of minutes, in two weeks, early afternoon, OK?

Much relief all round, we can even treat ourselves to lunch in Pontivy, which is a lively little town down in Central Brittany (no, that's not necessarily an oxymoron), as it's just a day or two before my birthday. I don't know how long it will be before Tom can have the cataracts seen to, but at least we've got things underway.

Well, I've written more than I intended to now so the stuff about creative mending which I was going to include in this post, on the theme of getting things mended, will have to wait till tomorrow, but you can go back and look at the ponies or the man with the cheekbones, otherwise here's a pretty pink rose, some of which are still blooming in the garden yet.

Oh, and belated happy Thanksgiving to everyone on that side, it slipped my mind, but thankfulness is always to be treasured.

Back from Jersey, with a mixed bag

Thank you very much for your kind comments about Tom's garage. He wanted people to know that he wasn't looking at his most elegant in the pictures. Vanity is a harmless vice, I've decided.

Just back from Jersey, which was pretty good. I didn't really take any photos once we left St Malo because... oh I don't know, I just wanted to walk and look and not worry about the camera. And we didn't go to the zoo, as it was raining and wet and we reckoned if the animals had any sense they wouldn't want to come out and play, so we moseyed round the covered market where I bought two tins of smoked paprika, an ingredient I have never been able to obtain here and the museum, which is a good one, with a restored interior of a 19th century merchant's house, and a terrific horde of really old Celtic coins and gold, so people haver been stashing large amounts of money in the Channel Islands for quite a while.  They have a special laboratory in a kind of glass box within a room of the museum, so you can peer in at the men in white coats carefully working on the treasure piece by piece, as well as organic material they find in amongst it. This was one of the best bits of the trip for Tom because the very charming and helpful lady on the desk when she took our admission said, apparently without guile, 'So no reductions? Obviously neither of you is over 65...'

After that when it had stopped raining we had a very interesting walk around the port, and watched men at work on a big wet and muddy civil engineering project with some really serious plant and gear and tackle (though I still resisted the temptation of getting the camera out), and some others loading containers, and sundry other salty, boaty, watery activities, and I bought a red model VW combie in aid of the Lifeboats from a little RNLI shop on the quayside.

smoked paprika and a Volks combie

Indeed, there were quite a lot of rather fun things like Lifeboat shops and collecting boxes converted from big red Second World War mines or in the form of life size dogs and cats with slots in their head, which rather seemed to be out of a time warp from my childhood. 

We had some unbelievably good Indian/Bangladeshi food from Café Spice; we couldn't eat it all but we did our best and I brought some of the naan bread home with me. We couldn't believe how big a medium sized coffee was from a well-known chain selling oddly-flavoured hot coffee milkshake (sorry, I'm afraid latte mostly seems to me like a kids' drink, as I think it probably is in Brazil; we had a black and a white, or as they insist, an Americano and a cappucino). 

Unfortunately I think I fell foul of some dodgy scrambled egg at breakfast on the second day, and couldn't enjoy things quite so much after that. In fact it was a really lovely hotel with very good food (including Madeiran espetadas) and run very well by really nice people, so I don't like to think they may have poisoned me even a bit but I did suspect the scrambled egg, though it tasted fine at the time. On the other hand, eating more rich meaty food in 24 hours than is normal in a month, and the fact that everywhere you go is so warm and stuffy, it seems to us, I think makes one a bit susceptible to being upset. It's a little tiresome really, how adjusting and adapting doesn't get easier; we live in a certain way, with parameters of food and drink and temperature quite finely tuned, and going outside those seems to pose problems, and they then need to be readjusted to. The house seemed cold and damp and a bit miserable when we came back too, though we left the radiators on a reasonable setting, and they'd not come on, and it smelled rather sour and sooty. But it's cheering up a bit now, and the chimney sweep's coming next week. It's a bit late to go away really, the house doesn't really like us to do so at this season, we find.

The optometrist took a long and careful time over Tom's eyes, and wrote him a doctor's letter, so that was time, effort and money well-spent, but means we've things to sort out now. 

So a mixed bag, but still a good trip.  I'll find some more pictures soon.

A post of two halves: Tom at the helm, and donkeys and spaniels

I seem to have something of a number of things to post all of a sudden, which for various reasons I don't want to hang around on, so this is really two posts in one.  

Robbie asked in the comments of the last post if I had ever helmed a yacht. I haven't, only a Mirror dinghy on a gravel pit which isn't quite the same thing, but Tom has.  This was the vintage racing yacht Gymea that my niece B and her salty sea dog partner M used to live on in Avalon (yes, that really was the name of the place) north of Sydney.  This is B - she's the one I made the rainbow gloves for:

(with M's hand coming out of the inside of the boat)

and this is Tom when he was told he'd have to drive the boat:

But then M, that's him next to Tom, explained everything:

I'm not sure I've got a very good head for the physics of sailing, that's to say I do understand the principles but applying that in motion is another matter. However Tom got the hang of it, and used the little bits of fluttery string attached to the sail (don't know what the proper nautical term is for them) to judge all about wind and stuff like that, and we had ever such a lot of fun.

That was eight years ago now (I notice I had a lot less grey in my hair then, and my glasses look unfashionably large) and I don't know whether we'll get the chance to sail such a boat again. B and M no longer live on Gymea, but on a couple of other boats - they found they needed a bit more space than the cabin of a racing yacht - one of which they built themselves, but I rather doubt we'll get to visit them there again.

~

The other subject to cover is Sunday's Donkey Festival, which for the last couple of years has taken place just up the road from here in the fields (I posted about it once here), but whose success now means it has been promoted and this year it was held in the town of Moncontour itself, with much more promotion. We went along for the morning parade, which was mediaeval themed.  Moncontour has a rather well known mediaeval festival, which used to take place every year and in our first years here was good fun, you only had to go and sit around and all kinds of genuinely entertaining things, impromptu and interactive bits of theatre (and quite good food) went on around you, from scrofulous beggars, shamanic stilt walkers, and once a rather alluring witch who pinched some of what I was eating then pulled a set of male genitals out of the bag she was carrying. Now though, it's become a victim of its own success; the town council and the traders all fell out about contributing to it, it only takes place every two years, it's over-priced and overcrowded, there's nothing much worth seeing and you can't see anything anyway over all the heads. But the town did in the course of things amass a large collection of mediaeval costumes, and they encourage people to put them on as often as possible, so this year we had mediaeval donkeys.

We found ourselves right in the path of the parade, so I made another video! I'd not really thought much about filming things like this before, but it does save an awful lot of time editing photos, and when a video can convey something of the atmosphere of an event where still shots might be difficult to get.  Also, I find that once I've starting recording, I can look up and watch the event directly; I don't want to be one of those 21st century people who can only experience things through the screen of their e-device.

This time, too, unlike with the Belem, there's a musical sound track. Tom always rolls his eyes a bit about this kind of ambulant music here, and when it's Breton bagpipes I suppose that's understandable, but I'm often rather charmed by the naïve folksiness of it.  And there really are some kick-ass donkeys to be seen.

But the real wonder of the day was when we turned round and were confronted by this threesome of black cocker spaniels (and a terrier called Bob). 

We fell on them in a kind of swoon, and I was just about to explain in French about Molly when the man with them said, in English 'You like black cocker spaniels do you then?'.

I'm afraid we totally distracted the couple from their outing looking at mediaeval donkeys by engaging them in dog talk, nineteen to the dozen. The somewhat smaller cocker on the right of the picture was very much like Molly in looks and temperament, with a curlier coat and a smaller, tuftier head and ears than the others, but it was the other two, who were rather more perfect pedigree specimens, who were more attentive and affectionate to us.  The largest, a male, the one in the centre, we were assured, would be quite happy to come home with us, he really would prefer to be one dog on his own...

While his companions were getting so much love and attention lavished on them, and the Molly look-alike was giving the donkeys a bit of a telling off for being there, Bob decided he'd had enough of this malarkey and slipped his collar and went walkabout, so Tom had to round him up and give him some fuss too.

We went away with tears in our eyes, of course.  They were such clear-eyed, healthy, calm dogs, almost like they were Molly translated. Lovely creatures.

A good morning out.

Tom's hot stuff

Well, I finally finished Tom's red Lang sock wool scarf.  It just went on and on; sometimes I was knitting with it wrapped round both our necks, and from time to time asked 'are we there yet?'  But he just kept replying 'no, make it longer!'.  I felt like Rex Harrison's pope Julius to Charlton Heston's Michelangelo, amended to

'When can I make an end?'
'When it is finished!'

At last I came to the final section of grey on the second skein (I love that word, wool and geese, two of the loveliest things the world has to offer), and if it were to end as it began that had to be it.  I washed and blocked it, hoping that would widen the rib a bit, which it did slightly but not very much, though it made it more supple and amenable to being stretched and opened out anyway. There was enough left to make a fringe, which took quite a while too.

then it had to be trimmed. After that, I wetted the fringe and tried Elizabeth Zimmerman's trick of whacking it very hard while wet on the edge of the sink.  This had the interesting effect of making all the separate fine strands curl and cling together into chunkier cords, probably in terror at such violence.

It really is absurdly long, but he seems pleased with it,

 the extra length, he says,

can always be wrapped around twice.

Anyway, while I knit, or put on tassels, he cooks.  Inspired by Rick Stein, it must be said, he is coming over all Indian flavoured.  This one was a great success, in my opinion:

I love curry, and I love mussels.  What could be better then, than curried mussels?

I'm not talking about the pathetic teaspoonful of curry powder the moules frîtes places stick in the poaching liquor and charge an extra euro for, which generally passes for curry and therefore daringly exotic in French terms (and often all shoved under the blanket heading of créole, whether from the French West Indies, Pondicherry or Africa), but a really well blended light curry sauce, with onion, garlic, chopped fresh tomatoes and ginger as well as a good dose of chilli and other freshly, and quite coarsely, ground spices, reduced and brought to high heat, then the mussels cooked in it.  Bloody delightful; some wedges of lime and slices of cucumber to freshen it up and some naan bread which I buy and freeze on the rare occasions I see them.  And beer, of course.

This one wasn't quite so photogenic, but tasted pretty good too.  Chicken, pullao rice and Bombay spiced potato (with mango chutney on the side).  He is also making proper ghee by clarifying, simmering and straining unsalted butter; this meal used rather a lot of it.  If we go on like this we'll both be needing great big scarves to cover our great big tummies.

In fact, studying more authentic cookbooks, it becomes apparent that a lot of real Indian food is in fact quite dry, as this was (though the ghee helped offset that...). Coming as we do from the land which (allegedly) invented chicken tikka massala, we find we rather like a bit of extra gravy.  There was just enough for me to have as leftovers for lunch the following day, and I took the liberty of adding some tomato passata and a drop of light cream, which worked very well, though I didn't tell him I'd done it till later.

Life is sweet.  And savoury.

Stripes, 3/3, Tom's scarf

Although I mostly avail myself of all the excellent free stuff on the internet, one of the unexpected joys I'm discovering about knitting  (yes, it's true, I do rather like knitting, did I not say?) is the literature of it.  I never knew!  Some of this comes across as rather smug lifestyle porn: produced from knitting cafés full of preposterously slim, glamorous people who seem to have nothing to do but sup on dainty cakes, practise yoga and pilates, hang about the edges of the film industry and create teeny-tiny bijou sweaters and jackets from sock wool (you have to be skinny and/or leisured ever to finish a sock-wool sweater that you can get into).  But the best of it, from the chatty, quirky, witty style of Elizabeth Zimmerman, who's like a really good, funny, enthusiastic blogger, giving a vivid impression of her unusual character and way of life, addressing the reader with irony and affect, quite unlike any other writing on this subject or probably any other of the period, to Nancy Bush's remarkable, scholarly, ethnographic travelogues, knitting books can be so much more than just collections of patterns.

One that I've enjoyed lately is called 'Knits Men Want' by Bruce Weinstein. As well as achieving what I regard as the almost technomagus-like feat of creating universal patterns so that you can knit the given garment for any size person in any yarn, by a kind of matrix whereby you cross-reference the number of stitches per inch with the measurements of the person concerned, he intersperses each of these with an essays and advice about what one needs to consider when knitting things for men.  He observed from his own knitting groups that women were frequently disappointed when presenting the men in their lives with lovingly made and, as they considered them, suitable gifts, only to have them unappreciated. So as a man himself and a knitter, he decided to address the situation.  The chapters have headings such as 'Rule 1:Men Can't Fake It', 'Rule 3: Men Sweat', 'Rule 5: Not All Men Are Worthy of Cashmere', 'Rule 10: When In Doubt, Make Him Something Basic', are very funny, and while somewhat hyperbolic at times, contain some useful and interesting observations.  

It has certainly made me appreciate what a good sport and loyal husband my Aussie brother was to wear the forget-me-not blue fluffy mohair sweater my sister-in-law made for him when he went on his long pilgrimage walk last year*, since other pieces of advice the writer gives, are to avoid itchy fibres ('men are babies') and stay with subdued colours ('think under the rainbow - most men want to live in Kansas, not Oz').  Bearing this in mind, when we went into the lovely wool shop in Morlaix, I picked out a nice flecky grey wool, possibly something from the soft underbelly of a yak or similar, and offered to make Tom a scarf.

'Bit dull,' he said 'what about this?'

and selected a ball of sock wool in glowing red, russet, grey and anthracite.  It was Lang Jawoll Magic degradé,  - shade no.85.0028, if you do follow the link.  In fact his initial choice was 85.0017, and it was I who demurred and suggested there was perhaps a little too much pink and purple in it for comfort, though to judge from our friends' account of spying two notable French icons of film and fashion in Paris lately, the men's department in Marks & Spencers on my England trip, and our lovely doctor's new pullover the other day, pink and purple are cool for men just now.

The photo doesn't really do the colours justice, indeed neither does the colour chart in the link, it really is very rich and does glow like embers.  Another of Bruce's counsels is not to make scarves for men too long, but Tom says that one skein's worth isn't enough, he envied his granddaughter her long scarf, and would like this one well wide enough easily to loop round double, and as the 4 x 4 rib makes it a bit narrow, that's just as well.  And as it's sock wool, this makes it something of a work of patience, so I doubt he'll get it before Christmas, as I still need to have more than one thing on the go at once to avoid boredom. But since it's still very mild, and as he's not going for walks much since he stepped in a rabbit hole and twisted his knee (poetic justice perhaps after all the cursing of bunnies he did when they were coming into the garden earlier in the year?), that doesn't matter much either.

I promise, no more knitting for at least one more post...

* though in fact it was reported that this made him something of a 'cuddle magnet', in our other brother's words; women who were complete strangers came up to him at bars and hostelries and snuggled up to him, or at least to his jumper.

Knitting 3) Tom's waistcoat, from the Charming Ewes of the Monastery of the Transfiguration

As I said, my blue-green waistcoat was a prototype. I persuaded Tom that he wanted me to make him one for his birthday this month.  He had already said quite firmly that he didn't want me knitting him any socks, since he would feel too mortified if they went into holes (or that was the reason he gave anyway...), but he gave in to the waistcoat.  Then I found the site of a Greek Orthodox nunnery in the Dordogne, le Monastère de la Transfiguration, where six sisters and their priest labour to produce glowing icons, fig, walnut and cherry jam, and to raise happy Charmoise ewes whose wool they shear, card and send for dying and spinning, then sell directly from the monastery to a discerning public.  How could we resist?

It only comes in four very classic solid colours, taupe (above, which we chose), a maroon red, chocolate brown and natural cream.  It's rather like knitting brown bread, simple, wholesome and satisfying, but a little rough in texture and perhaps a bit dull as a sole diet. Washing with a drop of fabirc conditioner softened it a bit, but it's as well it won't be worn next to the skin.

On researching these kind of sheep, it turns out that, although their wool is one of the Monastery's prized products, they are in fact a meat breed.  Their fleece is good and serviceable, without egregious black hairs in it, but it's not their reason for being.  I don't know if there are any French breeds of sheep which are primarily raised for their wool, milk and/or meat seem to be the priorities here.  It seems to me that with the craze for varietal wools which has emerged in recent years (wool, I would posit, resembles wine in many ways, except you can't drink it), many of the sheep breeds are of British origin. Though the Merino, I gather, originated in Spain; they must have been bloody hot there under all that wool.  I must find out more, I do like learning about farm animals, and I like wool.  Anyway, I hope the six sisters and their priest also enjoy a nice feast of roast lamb at Easter too.

This time I paid attention to the gauge, and also to details like knitting the moss-stitch waistband on smaller needles and doing an extra row of edging to give it more shape, and starting the neck decreases a little earlier to keep the armholes a bit shorter, and the result is much more successful.  I have finished it but, though I checked some aspects of the fit while I was making it, the final product, and the rather nice buttons I got for it, Tom hasn't yet seen.  He's very good at putting things like that out of his mind so as not to spoil the surprise (for me), so I can't show you much of it just now, but here's a close up,

showing the quite interesting, and for me not unchallenging, pattern of moss stitch rib which comprises the main body of the garment, and which shows up much better with this wool that in the first one.

Again, plenty of wool left for stashing.

Molly and more at Mont St Michel

Mol and my legs, ready to mount the Mont

Molly is in fact something of a Mont St Michel veteran.  The first time we went there was some years ago when she was much younger, with no grey in her muzzle.  We met up with some friends, quite early in the day, and we all wound our way to the top, where we discovered that we couldn't take her into the abbey itself, so she and I raced down to the bottom again, I put her in the car in the car park at the foot of the Mont, and raced - yes I did - up again, while Tom and our friends watched me from above.  I must have been quite a bit younger then too, to have done that.

Now, on account of all the massive earth- and water-moving works going on there, on which I will post more later, you can no longer leave your car at the foot, but must park quite some way inland, walk about a kilometre, and catch one of the new electric shuttle buses - or you can walk all the way.

I failed to get a good picture of the full-sized passenger buses, but this is one of the small La Montoise versions laid on for people who work on the Mont, which I feel can only be described as cute.

Later in the year you will  be able to take one drawn by beautiful Percheron horses, but these are still on their test drives.

We cheerfully hopped on board the bus, which then became so crowded that the ubiquitous Japanese tourists must have felt quite at home as if on the Tokyo metro, then noticed the sign in the window saying that dogs weren't allowed on board.  Mol was astonishingly good, stayed firmly between my feet, didn't flinch, whine or tremble, and by a mercy didn't get trodden on, though a small girl whose eye-level was not very much above hers, offered to tickle her with the feather she was carrying, then noticed the no-dogs sign and spent the rest of the trip  telling the world the dog shouldn't be on the bus, despite her mother's assurances that the lady hadn't seen the sign and the dog was surely très gentil... On the way back a friendly young operative smiled and waved us on, but asked that we carry her while on board, which for the few minutes it takes, with kindly Japanese faces peering into hers and making sympathetic 'aww!' noises and expressions, wasn't too onerous.

Anyway, dogs are expected to frequent the crowded cobbled paths and streets of the citadelle.  So Mol was able to avail herself of refreshment:

This clever device was the tou-tou bar, the doggie's bar, which meant fresh(er) water not easily knocked over.  And now, when you get to the abbey and want to go in but tou-tou can't, for seven euros there's even a kennelling service where you can leave them, though I'm afraid our Molly wouldn't tolerate that.

And while we were there saw met some other non-human habitués:

a sparrow and a unicorn,

an arrangment of gulls,

and some kitties on a rooftop (rooftops are often seen from above here).  When we were re-roofing our house, we bought some triangular ventilator fixtures, which were called chatières.  No cat could have passed through them, and neither could any bird, bat or even larger than average spider, since they were covered with a kind of slatted mesh, but the name evidently dated from a time when cats were expected to live and come and go on and just under the roof space of buildings, and these two had their own purpose-made chatière by having some slates dislodged for their ease of access.

We enjoyed looking out at sky and sands and the distant landforms of the Cotentin peninsular,

and the rocky islet of Tombelaine, the Mont's little sister.

I always enjoy these views framed by the arrow loops and their embrasures in the walls:

We didn't go right up to the abbey, but walked around much of the path around the ramparts, and Moll managed most of the steep stone steps without help.  We were very glad to stop, and picked a restaurant terrace that was cool and shady and which we had to ourselves.

Though it wasn't much after 10 am, the tables were laid for lunch, but they didn't mind just bringing us hot chocolate, and another drink of fresh water for Molly in an ash tray

It was almost certainly the most expensive hot chocolate we have ever tasted,

but surely the most restorative, and worth every eurocent, for the space and the cool shade and the views.

Then we made our way out by archway and causeway, shuttle bus and barrage ready for our next adventure, which I seem to remember was a bottle of cider and a brioche and our feet up for the afternoon... So taxing.

More MStM stuff later, though I've written and photographed better about it here, here, here and here. Oh I did love that old Canon Powershot.

(Tom took some of these, obviously, the ones with me in, and one or two of the others, 8 and 13, I think.)