Evening Hill Diaries 6 –
Midsummer Onwards
‘He lies where fierce indignation can no longer pierce his heart. Traveller go forth, and imitate if you can
this champion of liberty’.
A rather free translation of the
Latin epitaph (self-written) in St Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin, by its Dean,
better known as Jonathan Swift (1667-1745).
There are almost no satirical journals,
and few satirical writings, at least of the ferocity of Swift himself. The fortnightly periodical, Private Eye, does its best to uphold the
tradition. I can think of no other paper
which tackles corruption, cronyism, snobbery, and even downright political and
economic incompetence in the same way nowadays.
Those who think that satire was/is
at its fiercest in the 20th and 21st Centuries should
read Swift’s essay ‘A Modest Proposal’, freely available, in which he proposes
a novel way of dealing with poverty and overcrowding.
Predictably, the Eye has had a
field day with Boris Johnson’s resignation honours list, stating that it would
be easier to mention the few who did not fall into the Crony or Undeserving
category. ‘Incidentally, there was no room on the list for anybody who had
actually contributed to tackling the virus rather than spreading it’.
There is some gentle satire out
there, however, other than Private Eye.
Michael Deacon writes of the new planned BBC version of the Famous Five
books by Enid Blyton and imagines how wonderful it will be. George (female), the character who always
wished she could be a boy now will be – or at least some variety of ‘trans’ or
crossdresser. And of course there is no
need now to have a dog (Timmy). One of
the cast can just identify as a dog. It
will be ethnically diverse, of course, but this could raise problems of colour
and race in just one family. Perhaps one
will turn out to be adopted? ‘I say, Anne, that explains everything. I’d always wondered why you were wearing that
burka’.
Summer came for a few days: here
is a Small Tortoiseshell butterfly on the lavender:
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And Matt’s contribution to satire
– gentle but accurate. One for those who
remember the festival and subsequent film of ‘Woodstock’:
There are some interesting people
I have been meaning to write about.
Sadly, this is because they have died.
Firstly, Professor Mark Monaghan,
MBE, a colleague and friend of 47 years standing. Mark has sadly died of metastatic bowel
cancer, less than three years after his first symptoms, and was only in his
late 60s.
Mark began his career as what we
now call a cardiac physiologist. He
studied sciences outside the University circuit, and when I first met him, on 2nd
February 1976, as I joined the cardiac department as a registrar, he was one
of only two people at King’s College Hospital to have attended the famous Smith
Kline echocardiography course, run by Graham Leech. This he did in the latter part of 1975, so he
was already the acknowledged opinion on the subject. We all quickly recognised the fantastic
contribution echocardiography (ultrasound imaging) could make to cardiac
diagnosis. The machines available were
primitive to say the least. Bright lines
on an oscilloscope (in ‘A’ mode) moved across the screen in a rhythmic
dance. This dance could be played over a
time graph (‘B’ mode). Only the most
obvious cardiac structures could be seen and measured. Mark embraced this instantly. Others of us were plodding through the usual
routines of learning to place tubes inside the heart (cardiac catheterisation),
measuring the ECG inside the heart (electrophysiology), and placing insulated
wires inside the heart (cardiac pacemaker implantation). Within a very short time Mark became the ‘go
to’ opinion on difficult to interpret echocardiograms, a skill which ultimately
was recognised across London, and in teaching, lecturing, mentorship and
demonstration, worldwide.
Mark’s first foray into further
development and research was for the modest aim of a M.Sc. degree. But his evident ability, and the support of
the Hewlett-Packard team and the Chief of Cardiology, David Jewitt, soon led to
the installation of very advanced research grade equipment at King’s. Mark
embarked on studies of tissue characterisation and echo contrast work which led
to a Ph.D. As time passed, he adopted
every advance that came along in the field of Echo, was a prime mover in the
establishment of the British Society of Echocardiography, and an adopter of clinical
standard setting, very much along the lines pioneered by the American Society
of Echocardiography. Early on in his
career, we all came across the extraordinarily gifted communicator and
researcher, Joseph Kisslo, of Duke University, North Carolina, who became an
adviser, mentor and friend. Joe and his
electronic engineer, Olaf von Ramm, had pioneered a method of ultrasonic
‘steering’ which could produce images without a mechanically rotated crystal
inside the ultrasound transducer. This
technology had been adopted by Hewlett-Packard.
Joe and Mark formed a close transatlantic bond which survived both by
video links and in person.
It seems ironic that so many
political hangers-on have now been honoured for just doing their job for a year
or two, but, after multiple submissions from many in the world of cardiology,
who knew just how great Mark’s contribution was over so many years, he was
gazetted M.B.E. and by special intervention of the Cabinet Office, he received
this in his garden just a week or two before his death. The award was presented by the
Lord-Lieutenant of Greater London, Sir Kenneth Olisa. Despite great pain, Mark made an elegant
speech, reminding us that some say MBE stands for ‘My Bloody Efforts’, but in
fact demurring, and giving tribute to all those who had supported him during
his career.
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| Mark Monaghan, MBE, and Sir Kenneth Olisa |
The next remarkable person –
remarkable in a completely different way – is the late Peter Joffre Swales, who
died last year. I have delayed writing
about him because his life fits in no particular category except ‘amazing’.
Peter first came into my life
when, as a vagrant child of Scottish origin, I found myself walking into the
distinctly Edwardian, nay Victorian, surroundings of Haverfordwest Grammar
School, Pembrokeshire, in September 1959 (motto ‘Patriae Prodesse Paratus’ –
ready to serve my country – pace Wilfred
Owen). The school song (sung in Latin)
was ‘Gaudeamus Igitur’, to the tune made famous in Brahms’ Academic Festival
Overture. Probably without the fifth
verse which extols the virtues of (easy) virgins. Peter Swales joined the same class. The school was run with great strictness by a
headmaster who was universally (though secretly) known as ‘Billy T’. Mr William G. Thomas was certainly of the
philosophy which took heed of the maxim ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child’ in
the school’s approach to education.
Somewhat unhappy, a fish out of water, with zero knowledge of the game
of rugby, and short-sighted, I made few early friends and was much abused,
vilified as a Scot (Angus, short for Aberdeen Angus became my nickname, among
others) and excluded from the cliques which built up around geographic
locations in the county. Few pupils came
from as far afield as Fishguard, from where I travelled on a very slow bus
every morning. Mining was still going on
in Llangwm, in the south of the county, and understandably some of these miner children
were tough and rough. But Peter was a
very bright, open-faced, freckled boy and we formed a bond, disregarding the unpleasant
comments made when it was he or I who knew the answers to the questions; who
finished classwork first; or memorised a set poem first. ‘Young Lochinvar’ was a favourite. I recall that most of the teachers still wore gowns in the classroom. Some idea of the achievements which counted
at the school can be gained from the fact that one of the talented sixth
formers, much extolled, played the organ for many morning services apart from
the ones when music master Mr ‘Bonzo’ Thomas took over. Bonzo was nicknamed to distinguish him from
the other two masters called Thomas, namely ‘Titch’ (Mr T.G., games) and
‘Elsie’ (Mr L.C., French). In addition,
within a few months of starting there, I was astonished to learn that we were
to be given a half day off because a recent graduate of the school was playing
scrum-half for Oxford in the Varsity match and we were encouraged to find a
neighbour who would allow us to watch it on television. I remember a grainy black and white 405-line
TV at our neighbour’s down the road, a view as though through a moderate snow
storm. I had little idea of what was
going on.
Peter’s father, Joffre, was a
musician and the family ran the local music and record shop. I think we first formed a bond outside school
when we were both chosen for the choir (treble voices – very
pre-pubertal). At that time a visit from
the school choir was a huge evening event in many Pembrokeshire villages, and
sometimes Joffre Swales would accompany us and give us support by playing one
of the many instruments of which he was a master. I remember a wonderful concert when he came
on to play equipped with a saw and a violin bow. Placing the saw under one knee, putting a
double bend in the blade, he played a wonderful version of ‘Danny Boy.’ I had never seen or heard anything like it.
As a child Peter had a major
interest in trainspotting, and I remember being summoned to stand on
Haverfordwest station on one occasion, sometime in 1960, to see what he
insisted was an important steam engine pulling the last train from somewhere to
somewhere. We also journeyed on the
train to the distant town of Neyland (8 miles) to see a Lancaster flying over
Milford Haven. When considering Peter’s
subsequent obsessional interest (vide
infra) it is important to recognise that his dedication to trainspotting research
was just a minor indication of a more scholarly and productive obsession which
would come to dominate his later life.
The words ‘pre-pubertal’ are
important here, because I left at the end of the second form, and we were still
undoubtedly treble voices. I left
following my family to Bath, and was fortunate to go to a more sympathetic
school where I passed exams, went to university, and then on to medical school,
generally forgetting my mostly unhappy experiences at Haverfordwest G.S.
But evidently, puberty and the
Beatles hit Peter hard, and before long he was bunking off school to travel to
pop concerts all around the UK. An
exasperated Billy T eventually expelled him, despite his obvious academic
ability. His parents must have despaired,
but agreed to his request that he could go to London to train as a piano
tuner. Peter had no such intention, however,
and found work in the HMV record store.
Through contacts he came to know several pop musicians, and then one day
found himself being interviewed to become an organizer and general factotum for
Mick Jagger. Peter’s description of his
time with the Stones is fascinating. But
eventually he moved to New York to found his own music company. You can read much of his subsequent career and
fascinating insights into Mick Jagger in an interview he gave in 1984 for
Rolling Stone magazine:
His rather careful use of
recreational drugs (unlike many others, he seems to have kept experimentation
under control), particularly cocaine, led him to read a book on Sigmund Freud,
an early experimenter with the drug.
Swales initially researched Freud purely to write about this aspect of
his life, but as he became engrossed (and obsessed) in reading about the famous
psychoanalyst, he found things which Freud had written which did not add
up. In particular, he became convinced
that one of his so-called patients was Freud himself. Gaining access to letters and documents that
had rarely seen the light of day, both in the USA and in Europe, Swales was
able to identify several of Freud’s patients and to see through much of Freud’s
writings as speculative and specious at best.
But he began to find himself in trouble when he found evidence which
suggested that Freud had conducted an affair with his wife’s sister,
Minna. Swales did not hold back. He not only published this but lectured on
the topic, drawing condemnation from established Freudians, and starting what
became known as ‘The Freud Wars’. Many
years later his theory was vindicated when someone found a hotel register in
the Alps which clearly showed that Freud and Minna had signed themselves into
the hotel as man and wife.
Eventually, Peter and his wife
moved from the USA to Turkey, where I suspect he led a somewhat louche, but
enjoyable and simple life until he died at the age of 73. I would have loved to have met him later in
life, but was completely unaware of his extraordinary story until I saw his
obituary – full page reports in all of the major papers.
After reading about Peter, I have
to console myself with some of the final words of George Eliot’s ‘Middlemarch’
– ‘…the growing good of the world is
partly dependent on unhistoric acts’, and the performance of unhistoric
acts is a category into which I suppose we mostly fall.
Staying with the psychedelic era,
and again, somewhat after the event, I also noted the demise of Keith Reid, son
of a holocaust survivor, who was rather better known for his composition of
lyrics for the band Procol Harum, and in particular, A Whiter Shade of Pale, “the dreamy anthem of hippiedom… which
remained at No 1 for six weeks during the 1967 ‘Summer of Love”. As the obituarist in The Telegraph noted, “We
skipped the light fandango/Turned cartwheels ‘cross the floor” along with weird
references to Chaucer’s The Miller’s Tale
and “Sixteen vestal virgins who were leaving for the coast”, came to define the
psychedelic, spaced-out aesthetic of the era.
For those young enough not to know the song, the haunting J.S. Bach
derived organ solo was an additional ‘hook’ to its phenomenal success. I have dreamy memories of the song being
played in every café and on every dance floor as I hitch-hiked around France
that summer. ‘Faire l’Auto-stop’ as it is in French was a formative and
sometimes enjoyable experience.
And finally, and tragically, the
Swiss cyclist Gino Mäder, who died at the age of 26 after crashing on the
descent of the Albula pass during the Tour de Suisse as the racers came down
into the Engadine valley. There is
really nothing one can say about this other than feel sorrow for his colleagues
and family.
July 3rd, 2023
Politics is in a sorry state:
strikes, inflation, increasing mortgage rates, crisis in the NHS. More doctors’ strikes planned. Obfuscation and prevarication in the
political attendees at the Hallett Enquiry into the pandemic preparedness (or
lack of it) and response. There is
really no change. But perhaps at least
there is not the widespread anarchy, rioting, and arson which has happened in
France following the police shooting of a 17-year-old, Nahel Merzouk, during a
traffic stop. The riots and civil unrest
are so extreme that there is concern for the Paris Olympics – due in the summer
of 2024.
The other main news is the
abortive attempt at a Russian coup by the Russian backed Wagner group, led by
an unpleasant gentleman called Yevgeny Prigozhin, an ex-jailbird with an
appetite for violence. Having dropped
anchor in Rostov-on-Don, the mercenary Wagner army began to move towards
Moscow, but commonsense, or at least self-preservation, prevailed and Prigozhin
has moved to ‘exile’ in Belarus. In view
of its geographic location, adjacent to Poland, Lithuania and Latvia, this has
caused understandable alarm in the West.
Now that we are well and truly
into an ‘Ashes’ cricket series (transatlantic colleagues please check it out)
and the tennis at Wimbledon has started, one can be forgiven for thinking that
all of this serious news has somehow gone away.
I recognise that much of what I
write details little of the wider world around, and I should be apologetic,
except that there is clear precedence. A
recent book about George Orwell, ‘The Orwell Tour’, written in the style of a
travel book (Orwell was born in Motihari, India, and remained peripatetic for
much of his life), has extracts from his diary written in August 1939, against
the backdrop of the gathering war clouds.
In the little village of Wallington in Hertfordshire, Orwell was much
more concerned with the health of his goats during a thunderstorm and the state
of his vegetable patch than any reaction to the formulation of the
Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, or apprehensions of war in Warsaw, Paris and London. I sense that we are all really like
that. Until faced with personal danger
or circumstances, we muddle along with our own little preoccupations.
Time for some light relief. I enjoyed the revelation of a (former) Duke
of Edinburgh witticism. Prince Edward,
his youngest child, gained abysmally poor ‘A’ level results. Then, presumably through some quiet and
murmured contact, he was offered a place to read history at Jesus College,
Cambridge. This prompted the Duke to
remark, ‘What a friend we have in Jesus.’
I recently read that Françoise
Hardy, the French chanteuse (the name
may mean little to any male born after 1955), has been reflecting on her life
and intractable pain from radiotherapy cancer treatment. She is now 77 and has urged the French state
to legalise assisted suicide. For
non-baby boom readers, Françoise, with her wistful and attractive songs about
young love was one of the darlings of the French ‘yé-yé’ cadre of female
singers in the 1960s. Beautiful and
chic, she epitomised French style. But in
her interview (The Guardian, 2021) she also said something very poignant, which
seemed to fit me like a glove. But perhaps
others have been too sensible, too wise, or unselfish to identify with her
personal philosophy. She was asked if she
had any regrets in her life. She said
(presumably in translation):
‘Life is an initiatory school where we learn through mistakes and
trials that try to make us better understand what we had not understood until
then. The moments when I behaved badly
were due to unconsciousness, ignorance, selfishness, whose trials are often the
consequence.’
‘O call back yesterday, bid time
return.’
Apologies for the non sequiturs:
here is another.
Elon Musk, of whom I think, ‘I do not like thee, Dr Fell / The reason
why I cannot tell…’ has had successes and failures recently. Successes (some) with his rockets. Less successful happenings with his cars – he
suddenly dropped the price of his Tesla cars (reason disputed), which
infuriated those who had recently bought them, but ultimately increased sales. He is a master manipulator in every
respect. But some schadenfreude when his SpaceX Starship rocket system blew up
recently. Millions witnessed the mid-air
explosion, but the Musk team insisted it was just a ‘Rapid Unscheduled Disassembly.’ A masterclass in dissembling which bears
comparison with Gwyneth Paltrow’s description of her separation/divorce from
Chris Martin as ‘Conscious Uncoupling’.
(Comparison courtesy of Sarah Knapton, Science Editor, Daily Telegraph).
July 6th, 2024
Yesterday I attended the funeral
service of the aforementioned Mark Monaghan.
A sad occasion, but a true celebration of his life, his close knit
family, and his many achievements. One
element of the service, something I have not encountered before, came at the
end of a superb eulogy delivered by his son James. As Mark was a gifted speaker and communicator
of his knowledge in echocardiography, James averred that Mark would never have
let him have the last word. And so he
introduced a message from Mark, recorded a few weeks before his death. As the recording started, a picture of Mark
appeared on the TV screen at the front of the church. As far as I can remember, the words were
something like this:
‘Hello everyone. If you are
watching this, I know that there will be many of you who will say, “So sad that
Mark lost his battle with cancer.”
But as far as I’m concerned, when I die, the cancer will die with
me. In which case I would suggest that
the result is not a defeat, but a draw.’
James: ‘Nice one Dad. Love you.’ End.
Unusual to report in a church –
hesitation, then a crescendo of applause.
What a remarkable occasion. I don’t feel I should write anything more
today and will return to the keyboard sometime in the future.
July 17th, 2023
Topsy-turvy weather. Unsettled in the UK, with high winds, some
days with torrential rain, and lower than average temperatures (high teens
Celsius typical). The jet stream has
travelled south and its vigorous high altitude currents have drawn very hot air
up from Africa to much of Europe.
Temperatures as high as 49 degrees C (in Sardinia) are likely, and are
widely in the high 30s. China meanwhile
has recorded its hottest day ever in the northwest province of Xinjiang. The arid Turpan Depression recorded 52.2 ̊C yesterday. The Western USA is also experiencing record
temperatures with a possible high of 54 degrees anticipated in Death Valley,
California.
But within the world of sport, we
have enjoyed a tremendous Wimbledon fortnight (U.S. = two weeks), with a spectacular
final in the Men’s singles, Carlos Alcaraz, the 20-year-old from Spain against
Novak Djokovic, the ‘surly’ Serb who has dominated tennis for ten years. Djokovic is certainly the player that
spectators love to hate. His aggressive
gestures and temper tantrums do not endear him to most of us. In addition, his bizarre views on everything
from vaccination to the baleful influence of white bread, his belief in
levitation, telepathy, his belief that he can clean polluted water by brain
power, do not help to endear him to Wimbledon crowds. His tennis is of extraordinary quality, in
every aspect of the game, but somehow he seems to lack the humanity of Rafael
Nadal, or the seemingly effortless elegance of Roger Federer.
None of the tennis experts polled
in advance of the match thought Alcaraz would win, but somehow he did; in the
fifth set, playing with intensity but also a joie de vivre that was
enchanting. I did have a momentary lapse
in my Djokovic antipathy when he spoke about his wife and his children
watching, and was momentarily overcome, unable to speak, with tears in his eyes
(Djokovic, not me).
In the week to come – more sport,
the resumption of the Tour de France after its second rest day; Ashes cricket
versus Australia; and the start of the Open Championship (please note, not the ‘British Open’), which takes
place at Royal Liverpool Golf Club, aka ‘Hoylake’, on the Wirral peninsula
between Liverpool/Birkenhead and the Dee estuary in Wales.
Finally, before I leave today’s
thoughts, it is axiomatic that the greatest sportsmen and women have a
remarkable capacity to focus, and a willingness to endure training regimes
which few of us could accept. The
retired footballer, Graeme Souness (70), a Liverpool and Scotland legend, has
recently swum the English Channel in a relay, raising over a million pounds for
the epidermolysis bullosa charity, DEBRA – see https://www.debra.org.uk/news/graeme-souness-and-team-swim-english-channel-raising-over-11-million-to-help-stopthepain
The motivation to do this came by
chance, after he met the severely affected 14-year-old girl, Isla Grist, who
has Dystrophic Epidermolysis Bullosa. Graeme
lives in Poole and perhaps I should not have been surprised to meet him early the
other morning after my own very mediocre swim (about 250 m) to discover that he
is still swimming, around 2 km per day.
Wednesday, August 2nd
I am gazing out at dreary
rain. The capricious Jetstream has for
the last many weeks, encircled Britain in a swirl of upper atmosphere activity
which has brought us one of the wettest July months for many a year. We are about to set sail for France, tomorrow
fortunately for 60 mile an hour winds are forecast today. Hopefully the cross-channel ferry, Barfleur,
will run.
Many of the summer’s great sports
events have now concluded – the Open, won by the American Brian Harman, less
nail-biting than usual because he exerted a firm grip on the event at Royal
Liverpool G.C. almost from start to finish.
The Test Match series (cricket) ended with an exciting win for England
to make the score 2-2 versus Australia.
The Tour de France ended with a convincing win for the Danish rider,
Jonas Vingegaard, over his great rival Tadej Pogačar. Pogačar’s capitulation on the ride up to the
aeroport in Courchevel was a little difficult to explain, though close
observers noted what looked like a cold sore on his lip, and clearly he was a
little under the weather for a crucial two-day period in what is such a
gruelling three-week event. The
camaraderie among all of these riders is generally extraordinarily good and no
doubt the rivalry will be renewed next year when the Tour starts in Italy. For Mark Cavendish, no fairy tale ending this
time – an innocuous crash early in the Tour resulting in a broken collar
bone. Only the previous day he would
have won a sprint stage but for a failure of gear change mechanism in the last
50 metres. It is enough to make one
believe in fate. Except that like T E
Lawrence, for Mark Cavendish, it seems that ‘Nothing Is Written’.
While checking up on ‘the man for
whom nothing is written’, I was redirected from Google to an extraordinary
blog, which seems to be written by an Irishman based in Chicago, and even more
surprisingly is written about Arsenal F.C.
Unfortunately he seems to have stopped posting after about 2021, but the
wit of some of his writing is remarkable (warning; some foul language).
https://poznaninmypants.com/2013/10/01/for-whom-nothing-is-written/
His entry about Beckham in June
2012 is also worth reading… I won’t post the link because it contains rather
obscene language.
August 14th, 2023
Here in Britain we wonder when
the summer may arrive. Wet and windy
weather still, and precious few days without either in between.
But on August 1st,
Swiss National Day, we toasted absent Swiss friends.
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| Swiss National Day |
On 3rd August, we joined
Brittany Ferries’ M.V. Barfleur for the cross-channel crossing, en route to my
daughter’s wedding. Some friends had
returned on the ship the previous night and were all sick. I was worried that the ship would not sail back
to Poole from France. We can usually see
her in the distance from about 8.30pm, and when I had not sighted her as night
fell I walked down Evening Hill and around the harbour to eventually catch
sight of her as she steamed around North Haven point, nearly an hour late. This morning’s sailing was rather ‘bumpy’ and
we were relieved to be able to lie down in a cabin for the entire crossing.
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| The obligatory photograph as we leave 'Old Harry' behind. |
Back to France! Such a pleasure. Given that there is time to spare we take a gentle route out towards Cap de la Hague, west of Cherbourg. At the viewpoint in Landemer, there is a reproduction of J-F Millet’s view of the coastline, painted 150 years ago. It looks the same as it does today. The painting now resides in the Albright-Knox gallery in Buffalo, NY.
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| Les Falaises de Greville (taken from A.N. Other's image) |
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| And today... |
Curious to think
of ‘Jack the Dripper’ (Jackson Pollock) and his Convergence, 1952 rubbing shoulders with this
landscape, though presumably in separate rooms.
Millet today is probably most famous for his painting entitled ‘The
Gleaners’ (1857; Musée D’Orsay) which gained notoriety for its sympathetic
treatment of very poor rural workers.
Further along the coast, in the little town of Gréville-Hague, where he
was born is a reproduction of his painting of the little church, one of his
favourite works, which he kept until the end of his life. It was bought by the State at the sale of his
works after his death in 1875.
https://www.musee-orsay.fr/en/artworks/leglise-de-greville-338
And then on to our first night’s lodging
at a small hotel outside Villedieu-les-Poêles in southern Manche. This small town, on the Sienne, is famous for
its metalwork, and particularly bell casting.
We visit the foundry where among other exhibits, they are re-checking
some of the bells of Nôtre-Dame.
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| Bell foundry, Villedieu-les-Poeles |
And the first French cooking of
the holiday – soufflé aux langoustines…
The wedding - such a proud
occasion. I walk around the garden of
our little farmhouse gîte beforehand, nervously going over my speech, but I can’t
help being fascinated by a hummingbird hawkmoth which is feeding on the
lavender. At the venue there is wind and
rain aplenty, but spirits aren’t dampened, and the party goes on and on.
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| The Legal Bit - Kingston Registry Office one week beforehand |
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| Proud father. Sister Anna is the head bridesmaid. |
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| Standing on the podium in the rain, which did not dampen the smiles |
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| Showers of confetti as well as rain |
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| Who recently saw Elton at Glastonbury? |
People are kind about my speech, but I am guessing it is not unexpected. Who said, ‘Get on; say your lines; get off’?
A relaxed morning on Sunday. The weather is fine. A visit in the morning to Aubeterre-sur-Dronne, 'Un des plus beaux villages de France' which sports an unusual underground church carved from the limestone behind the village. This was somehow related to Pope Urban II's call to the First Crusade and became a place of pilgrimage afterwards.
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| The church inside the rock |
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| Aubeterre-sur-Dronne |
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| The mandatory picture with sunflowers, Chateau de Lerse |
Good weather is just as well for the pool party at
the Chateau venue. I am unsurprised to
find that Katie’s old school friend who is the most extrovert of the bunch and
acted as Emcee for the wedding is sporting the smallest bikini. Does one’s personality determine one’s choice
of swimwear? It’s the last fling for the
wedding partygoers with a lively disco and more food, wine, and beer.
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| Pool party. With my Grandson Arlo. So happy. |
Time for some R&R. We gently manoeuvre ourselves a hundred or so
miles north to the Marais Poitevin, otherwise known as the Venise Verte, an
area between Niort and La Rochelle, where the river Sèvre forms multiple
channels and backwaters before reaching the bay of Aiguillon. It is a fine place for cycling, either along
canal or river banks, or picturesque landscapes. At the little dam at La Roussille, there is a
lovely lock keeper’s type house, with a houseboat, rather similar to that of
Charles-François Daubigny, who popularised the en plein air style subsequently adopted by many of the Impressionists. His boat Botin
was copied by many of them. And Daubigny
was also one of the Barbizon School, together with Millet and Corot. Wheels within wheels.
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| The river Sevre at Niort |
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| The 'Daubigny' houseboat at La Roussille |
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| The church at Damvix, Marais Poitevin |
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| La Roussille at twilight |
And our last day, cycling the
Vendée cycleway from Fontenay-le-Comte southwest to Velluire and back. Tyres shredded by the rough paths and down to
the canvas (well, they were quite old) but happily returning safely to our final
night and a lovely meal out.
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| A hot afternoon in the Vendee. A final Abbaye brewed beer - 8.8% |
And it is back to Cotentin, stopping
for lunch at truck stop Les Martinaises near Pontabault. Cheap, brisk service, very French (e.g. razor
clams), and filling. Noticeable that
whereas in the distant past the Routiers would all have been swigging the vin
ordinaire or the cidre which is still placed on the table, nowadays they are
not. A final trip to a good
Boulangerie/Patisserie and back to the boat…
And a postlude:
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| A strangely prescient message in my wedding fortune cookie. |
To the next time…
