Thursday, December 18, 2014

Good things # 3: the cider press cometh

'I think they're making moonshine up the road,' said Tom 'they've just dragged some big machine thing up with a tractor, and now there's all kinds of noise coming from up there.'

So I went up to have a look, and next to Victor's house, with Victor in attendance, was a big noisy contraption I'd never seen before, powered from the tractor by all kinds of filthy wheels and belts and other gear and tackle though not a lot of trim,

as well as a thick hosepipe emanating from Victor's sister Hélène's shed, and there were apples everywhere:

They were emptied into a big wet hopper, where they seemed to receive some kind of very perfunctory washing, then scooped up in these baskets and conveyed to the top of the contraption, then squashed between a stack of metal grids, from which the residue of pulp was tossed aside

and the juice squirted out from a tap at the other end.

'How old is it?' I enquired above the din.
'I dunno,' replied Victor, 'old.'

He's well gone ninety himself. I also asked if they did anything with the discarded pulp. He said they used sometimes to give it to the cows but not any more, there wasn't much left in it anyway. The blackbirds like it, he added, but he thought it was perhaps the pips they were interested in, which had never occurred to me before about blackbirds going for windfall apples. I assumed the juice would be sour and horrible, but he said no, it's very sweet, and as I ducked away I stuck a finger under the stream and licked it, and indeed it was, so I gave him the thumbs up and he gave me a grin. 

The people who brought and worked it would be moving on to the next job, they make a tour. It won't in fact become moonshine, but will stay as cider, though Victor is one of the only farmers still alive who has the right to make 'Calva' (a term which is not only geographically inaccurate but rather glamorising of the product in question), he no longer does so; the travelling alembic doesn't come round any more, though there's one at St Laurent, but, he said, no one really wants the stuff now. I bought a litre bottle from him for 50 francs when we first came, and in fact it wasn't bad, at least as hot grog with lemon and orange and brown sugar. 

Anyway, if my description of the workings of this formidable engin is not adequate, here's a video I spliced together  from three separate ones I took, so you can work it out for yourself, though make sure your volume levels aren't too high, it really is very noisy, and no one's wearing ear protection! Victor, as regulars of this blog will probably recognise, is the little Tom Bombadil-ish chap who stalks off across the shot at the end, and the fat dour bloke is his nephew, one of the many Marcel/les of our village, who looks as if he's more used to drinking cider than making it, and probably won't make as old bones as Victor. The two anonymous entities covered in apple pulp are the machine's owners. 

I came away from the event quite unwarrantedly cheerful and excited.

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Good things # 2 - The Supercols' Christmas video

Hooray and hurrah, it's that time of year again, and I have received Li Yi and Colin's Christmas video! 

This is the fourth one of these I've posted since 2010, which most certainly constitutes a tradition. As I've probably mentioned, these two are very dear friends of my very dear niece in the UK, and I've never met them but they send me, with many other of course, their Christmas video because they know I will love and treasure it, and because their warm-hearted, creative generosity knows no bounds. They make these in a very hands on, low-tech, glue-and-scissors kind of way (this year with paper dolls using brads, which brings back memories of Clive's maquette exhibition) and they take almost distressing amounts of time and patience over them just for the love of it, and for no reward save the making itself and, I hope, the knowledge of how much it will touch, delight and amaze those of us who see it.

Previous videos can be seen on Vimeo: 2010, 2011, and 2013, and there are links with some of them about how they made them. Not quite sure what happened in 2012, I think they might have been getting married or something... In fact if you're over there on Vimeo, do sneak a peek at the Colin's wedding speech film to Li Yi. I don't quite feel at liberty to link to it, but it is there on a public channel, and if you're anything like me it will, like the rest of the videos or more so, make you laugh and cry at the same time, quite immoderately.

Sunday, December 14, 2014

Good things # 1: good news, sushi and beer

One of the main happy things to happen this week was the very straightforward run down to the big, really quite remarkably big, out in the fields down a road of its own, with bags of easy parking, polyclinique outside Pontivy. A very lively ophthalmology department (it was Wednesday afternoon and full of families of bespectacled children) shunted us through fairly efficiently, confirmed the cataract diagnosis and the imminent necessity of surgery, gave us outpatients dates for the right eye in January and the left in February, and a pile of paperwork, prescriptions and instructions (two Betadine showers in the preceding twelve hours and don't-forget-to-wash-your-belly-button seemed a bit like overkill but we accepted it, after all you don't want belly button fluff finding its way into your vitreous humours, do you?). Nothing to it, seemed to be the general attitude. Tom was much cheered, until he made the mistake of too much googling and learning rather more than he wanted to about the exact nature of the procedure. Serves you right for looking, was my attitude. But the rapid deterioration of his vision really more than outweighs any trepidation, and we are much relieved.

So then on to my birthday. As I say, it rained most of the day, but I went about my usual Friday morning errands and then we went up to the big supermarket near the big town, to carry out a plan hatched a while back and which we have been very much looking forward to realising. In the last couple of years perhaps, sushi, indeed much Japanese food, though I've yet to come across tempura, has become popular here. There are a couple of little restaurants in St Brieuc, and a small enterprise has also set up within the supermarket preparing it sur place. They are right next to the fish counter, and simply transfer pieces of salmon, tuna and bream across directly and stand there with their sharp knives and rolling mats making the stuff. It's very good, but expensive, not much cheaper than going down town to the restaurant for it, so we've only ever tended to buy very small amounts and take it home and eat it slowly with some ceremony, but I decided for my birthday I'd like to have a sushi blow-out, and with going out in the evenings getting a bit problematical with dodgy night vision etc (Tom's is failing, and mine's never been great, and if I drove I couldn't drink anyway), it seemed like a good solution.

The lady serving was very friendly and encouraging, and happy to be photographed, 

and we really did buy rather a lot, though we turned down the special Christmas packs designed for French tastes with a blob of foie gras stuck onto one or two of the maki.

and yes, we did eat it all. There were two pieces of sushi and one of maki left, but I made short work of them at lunchtime the next day (there's also a tub of pickled ginger left but that keeps and goes with anything, or indeed with nothing, I just eat it on its own, sneakily, straight from the 'fridge). We have our own chopsticks, mine are smaller and round and more polished, Tom's are matt bamboo with the partial square cross section. I put spoons out too, just in case.

We also got Japanese beer, which we enjoyed; it was quite frothy. I got out some of our best hand-thrown ceramics, the little dipping saucers and the pottery tumblers, which are the most heavenly things to drink anything out of, we ought to use them all the time, but I can't get past keeping some things for best.

All quite delicious, worth looking forward to.

Saturday, December 13, 2014

'The general balm the'hydroptique earth hath drank...'

- St Lucy's day. The yellowed copy of the Penguin Metaphysical Poets, passed down from my sister Alison, via my brother Phil, I think. I can't always tell whose writing it is in the margins with the rather lame, A-level notes, mine or theirs.

As often, a remarkably light-filled day, the house filled with sun till it went down behind Victor's barn some time between four and five. 

As always, it was my birthday yesterday. It rained most of the day, so though we went out we didn't walk, but I did today, just from home,

and a number of wonderful and delicious, small but perfectly formed, things have happened, many of them happenstantial and unlooked for, so I will post about them over the next few days.

Tuesday, December 09, 2014

Cheerful things on winter days

Over the coffee cups:

There are worse ways to linger over the breakfast table. I'm currently rather taken with toning stripes; those two blues are somewhat more different than they appear. They're more fingerless mittens for Jantien's partner Jessie (here are Jantien's finished carmine pink mitts).

And then it's that time of year again, bickering our way through the Christmas card list. It's all right really, we got Lifeboat ones when we were in Jersey, and we keep it sensible, are seldom able to reduce the number much but it's perfectly manageable, we aren't such excessively friended people as to have hundreds to remind that we're still alive every year. 

I broke the back of it today and got the overseas ones off all save the few that go in parcels. I intended to go out and do a bit of shopping for these and other things, but then decided against, since insomnia struck at 4 am, and the sofa downstairs, my big blue blanket, a glass of warm milk with a dash of orgeat and Aubrey and Maturin were beckoning. Life and hours are so leisured these workless winter days, I can easily afford this kind of broken sleep, and in truth rather enjoy it, as it's more or less the only time I allow myself to read and only to read, but it does leave me a bit bleary and disordered and out of sync. Also I thought the O'Brian would lull me into somnolence, lapped by the waves and lost in the impenetrably rich texture of detail and terminology and nothing much happening but exercises, with the men's characters drawn bit by bit in bold yet elliptical strokes, as it has gone on for nearly a third of the book. But then all of a sudden it got exciting with an Algerine galley attacking a Norwegian cat, and quite a bit of blood and thunder and the promise and disappointment of prize money, so it kept me awake longer than I meant it to. 


Talking of cats, I got out of the car in the drive the other day and perceived I was being watched.

A little face looking from the thuja hedge.

Possibly birding but more likely just exploring. I called Tom round and he enquired if she were stuck,

but she said she was OK, and gave his hand a quick pat and a rub with her head before climbing down. Don't know whose she is, she's friendly and seems happy and cared for, but we agreed we shouldn't invite her in.


Lastly, they showed this again in full on telly today, I do like it so much, be it ever so kitsch and camp and tacky and I'll probably be raided by the Taste Squad:

As well as to mark the launch of BBC Music, it's a Children in Need fundraiser thing, it seems, though I didn't know and don't actually follow that. And I'm so far from au courant I don't have a clue who many of the musicians are in any of the genres, but it's nice to see some familiar faces and there's a list of all of them as they appear here.

Tom's ophthalmology appointment tomorrow, so must needs find out where we're actually going.

Sunday, November 30, 2014

November collage

Well, here I am at the end of a month of daily blogging, with only a couple of days off while we were away. It seems a bit odd to be maintaining this tradition with the white heat of the blogging craze long behind us, and I've sometimes wondered why I'm doing it and what I've got to say or show of any importance, but I'm glad I have, it's made me feel more connected with an activity I still value and with all of you who stop by, who I still value too, and I have enjoyed exercising the discipline of making myself sit down and put a post together, I think it's probably done my brain some good, and I have thought to use the camera a bit more, which I've enjoyed too. I rarely think to look at stats any more, but when I did recently, I observed that they spiked dramatically on the days when I used photos, videos and links from elsewhere, so I don't know what's going on there, but not to worry.

There are still things I meant to post about then didn't get round to it, but they can wait and be subjects for later, or not, as it goes. However, now I expect to feel a little like the poor man in the fable who complained that he had no room with his big family in his tiny house, so the rabbi told him to bring the chickens, then the goat then the cow into the house, then to put them all outside again, so the man revelled in all the sudden extra space he had. Similarly, I will, I hope, discover a luxurious access of time, probably early evening, which I hope to use in sitting on my arse knitting, of which I have rather a lot to do before Christmas.

So to round things off, an end-of-the-month collage, on time for once. 

  1. Breakfast, yoghurt and honey. Actually this isn't particularly seasonal but it's nice.
  2. View from the front door early in the month, almost bare branches now.
  3. The man cutting the hedges.
  4. Tom's Christmas jumper, taking a rather long time. Half and half merino wool and cotton, nice but rather fine, half fisherman's rib, mostly big simple rectangles, might be a last minute rush before Christmas. More dark red.
  5. On the Condor ferry on the way to Jersey, rather too warm Australian Shiraz in plastic glasses, but we were in a holiday mood and didn't mind.
  6. First fires in the chimney. We usually manage to hold out till November. This was one of the old beams Tom took down doing the garage job, you can see a nail sticking out of it.
  7. Road through the chestnut and beech woods, see yesterday's post.
  8. Walnuts, usually a basket of them on the table during the winter, good for antioxidants.
  9. Leaf litter.
  10. Skeletal poppy head. More dead heads on a web album.
  11. Foggy garden this morning, only a couple of weeks ago it still looked like this.
  12. Mince pie, the first today as it is the First Sunday in Advent. Enjoyed with tea and Radio 3's Service for Advent with Carols, which ticked all the boxes for such a thing, which are really just two: Oh Come oh Come Emmanuel to start and Lo He Comes with Clouds Descending to close, Sleepers Awake after that was a bonus. I like early Advent, it's really the best of Christmas for me, it feels fresh and ancient at the same time. Some of the liturgy, said the programme notes, dates back to the sixth century in Gaul, which gave me a bit of a shiver.

So, be seeing you, and thanks for reading and stopping by.

Saturday, November 29, 2014

Three beautiful things

Two from yesterday, one from today.

1) The way through the woods. This is one of my favourite bits of road to drive through, as I do quite frequently, but most especially in spring or autumn, because the leaves of the beech trees come and go a little earlier than those of the chestnuts they grow amongst, so you have a sense of the first green flames flickering and the last golden ones dying down amongst the not yet kindled or burned out logs of the chestnut trunks. This is one of the things I like about living here where the predominant tree species are chestnut, oak and then, less frequently, beech.

As for the road, it's not so easy to stop on, so I've never really taken photos here. I made the effort this time as it was brighter at last after days and days of rain and fog, and I suddenly realised that autumn would be gone before I knew it. When we first came here, it seemed to me that autumn colour didn't really happen, and I missed it, but in fact what really often happens is that the wet, dull, windy weather of November can whip the last of it away while we huddle indoors and don't see the going of it.

So I got out of the car at the parking spot and and walked back some way to photograph the vista I admire so often while driving.

Typically, however, I found my eyes straying downward to the leaf litter.

The parking spot is under a big stone cross which, I think, marks the boundary between Quessoy and Hénon. Soize's husband, the erudite local historian and master crêpier Quercus (the town's name, Quessoy, coming originally from the Latin for oak, in which the place abounded), tells of how when he was a nipper, the children of the two communes would appoint a time to meet under the stone cross for a battle, a ritualised and generally bloodless affair, I think, superseded in adolescence by a rivalry centring on the differing types of scooter they rode according to the franchises held by the two towns' garages. 

For me, the spot was for a long time one of the Stations of the Mol, one of those places where, however sound asleep she appeared to be on the back seat, Molly would mysteriously know that we were approaching, and sit up and bark for a walk. As she grew older, the walk wasn't much of a walk, at least not for me, as all she really wanted to do was get out of the car and walk round and round in circle sniffing at things; but even a very little time before she left us, I stopped here and opened the windows for her and she lifted her head and took in the the smells with recognition.

There are more photos on a web album.


2) A box of light at Quai de Rêves. We, the both of us unusually, met up with Iso and Princeling and, unusually, Pascal their paterfamilias, to take in a dance show in Lamballe. A combination of one-woman dance and a fairly uniquely conceived form of digital art, a kind of cube of translucent membrane on which were projected forms and patterns of light, abstract, figurative and ... whatever letters and numbers are, not calligraphic, ummm, typographic? Anyway. These seemed to respond to her movement, but I'm still not certain they did, I think perhaps she followed them, since after the performance the audience were invited to come and play in the box themselves, but it didn't seem quite evident how to make it respond. It was fun trying anyway. Tom was entranced by the dancer (he either is by contemporary dance or hates it) and sought her out afterwards to express a tongue-tied thanks and shake her hand, Iso was moderately pleased, but as a dancer and performer herself said she wasn't entirely satisfied by the dancer's 'vocabulary of movement'. Princeling was only somewhat entertained and started to fidget (the chairs were a bit uncomfortable and it was a bit late) but he had been to a proper restaurant beforehand without a kids' menu and had eaten pintâde and café gourmand without the café, and most amazing of all his teacher was at the show (that one's primary teacher might exist beyond the classroom is a fact fairly bouleversant to a seven-year-old) so it wasn't a bad evening for him overall. I don't know what Pascal thought, he and Iso always seem to get caught up in a bit of networking at these events so I guess that's a positive for them, but for myself I was just happy that everyone was doing OK and the performance was interesting enough and not too long. I didn't take any pictures of it as I'm not sure that's good form and anyway I wanted to watch it, but here are some I took afterwards during the audience participation bit:

The last one is Princeling, with his face blurred because it was dark and I wasn't using flash.

It wasn't a long show, so there was time for a very light meal and yesterday's blog post before we left, the drive there and back (oddly, my eyes, not great with night vision, seemed much better adapted to the road after watching the show than before), a bit of time to socialise, the show itself, then cheese and wine and telly and knitting when we got back, so it seemed a really very long and full and satisfying evening.


3) The chimney sweep's dog.  Having the chimney swept is indeed a beautiful thing in itself; the fire burns clean and bright afterwards and there's that good feeling that something cleansing that needs to be done has been done.  The young chap who does it is calm and careful and hard-working and has some powerful kit for the job. But an unlooked for bonus was this fellow who he had in the cab of his van:

An American cocker spaniel puppy. 

You can bring him in, I said, trying not to sound too desperately eager.  But he said no, he was fine, and in fact the vacuum cleaner he operates from the van is very noisy in the house but the cab is well insulated, and anyway I think he's learning to be a good road companion, and we know from Molly experience that you need to be consistent and not give them mixed messages about when  they do and don't come out of the vehicle. But he took him out afterwards and let us all say hello. He's only two and a half months old, so he's doing very well coming out and about to work with his boss and waiting and so on, though I did notice there was a thick protective sheet on the seat!

We agreed that the most important thing for them is to be with you, not to be alone and to be taken along. The sweep was clearly very besotted with him and very proud - his mum and dad were both champions, he told us. As before, it was rather dark for the photos, and as with Princeling, he didn't care to keep still.

What's his name? - I asked.
Joe, - said the sweep, and grinned - Cocker!


Final day of daily posting tomorrow. 

Friday, November 28, 2014


I used to sew a lot as a youngster. I wasn't brilliant at it, too slapdash, and school needlework was a nightmare; a 'waist petticoat' consisting of a rectangle of white poplin with one French seam (what? Who'd want to be bothered with a thing like that, seaming twice when once would do fine... Come to that who the hell wants a poplin waist petticoat anyway?) and elastic round the top took me all of a school year, since the (possibly clinically insane) needlework teacher sent me back to unpick it time and again until it was frayed with wear, grey with fingermarks and brown with rust from the pins. However, I really did learn to sew at my mother's and my sisters' knees, it was a source of enjoyment and challenge, and if making something myself was an option I'd usually give it a try; bras and jeans could never quite match the bought versions for fit, but most other things could be attempted, and in those days home made really was often cheaper, especially when you had a mother whose idea of a good Saturday afternoon out was market stalls selling fabrics. 

Nowadays though, I've come to realise that sewing isn't really a great pleasure for me any more; it seems to be one of the many things I'm letting go with relief and without regret*.  I will make the odd curtain or cushion cover or other item for the house if called for, but I don't really enjoy it that much, and getting the machine out feels like a chore, it's strictly about the product not the process. I have a small pile of interesting fabrics, for which I had a few plans, but lately I became aware that looking at them made me feel tired and weighed down and guilty. The awareness came to me because of the difference between that feeling and the one engendered by the prospect of my stash of knitting wool, which is always one of exciting possibility and tingling in the fingers at the projects it represents, even though they may not ever come to fruition. 

However, there is one area where I regard a bit of sewing quite cheerfully, and that's in the area of mending. I know a lot of more gifted and serious needlepersons regard mending as a dreary horror, but I'm genuinely quite happy to do it, and always have been, in fact.  A patch represents a manageable morsel of sewing for me, and darning a rather charming little symbiotic flowering of weaving or embroidery. The work brings the item back into commission, but its existence isn't dependent on it. And more recently I've become quite taken with the possibilities of more creative mending, using it to embellish and make things unique.  It helps of course that I now live in such a way that eccentrically mended and tatterdemalion clothing can be worn as no one much sees it anyway. Though I've always been rather drawn to motley; there used to be an urban tribe of dreadlocked anarcho-feminists who hung out somewhere in north London when I lived in the city in the eighties who wore jeans and leather jackets entirely composed of shreds and patches, and I often looked at them rather enviously. I doubt that I would have qualified to join, my half-hearted reading of Bakunin and Malatesta and occasional purchase of 'Green Anarchist' weekly (their recipe for chickpeas with apricots was a blow-out, green anarchists must have had hearty appetites) probably wouldn't have been enough.

Anyway, here are some examples. Tom's favourite Black Watch M&S shirt, worn at the collar then torn on the sleeve on a nail, I really actually no kidding turned the collar! I have never before done this, it looked a bit odd and I had to stitch it down a bit or it stuck up but it's wearable. Then I patched the tear with a piece of green cloth table napkin someone gave me, and I decided we were never going to use leaf green cloth table napkins:

Whimsically I made it leaf shaped. And I was very pleased with my patience because I didn't tell him but put it away in the wardrobe at the end of the summer so he didn't find it done till he got it out in the spring (it's a quite thin cotton shirt).

I decided I liked the leaf motif, so when I found I had spilled something nasty on my old plummy-browny-purply yoga pants which caused a kind of stained and wrinkled splodge, I used it again:

We both wear rather a lot of polar fleece. Sometimes I feel a bit conflicted about this, it's rather nasty cheap synthetic stuff really, and contrary to some belief is almost never made from recycled plastic water bottles. It is however lighter than wool and warmer than cotton, doesn't itch, comes in nice colours, is economical and dries from the wash in the blink of an eye. If it ever scorches, though, which is an occupational hazard with a wood fire, or even from leaning over the stove, it melts in an instant, which was what happened to this purple one, of which I really was very fond because it's a very good colour.

Oh, and another thing about it is it doesn't felt, unlike wool. I have a number of old felted sweaters in my piles of stuff, and sometimes I chop them up with a view to doing something creative with them. So I made a big pocket from the bottom of one and used it to cover up the scorch mark, and as it didn't have a pocket this was quite useful. Then I put more whimsical leaves on the elbows which were a bit thin and worn, and some other totally unnecessary bits in other places too.

At this point it becomes clear how much dark reddish, brownish and purplish clothes we have in our wardrobes. Like my best linen trousers, which I thought I took good care of but then splashed some bleach on them through the laundry basket. The resulting white spot had to be covered up. Spiders' webs inspired the repair this time. 

They're really redder than the above one, the camera tends to a bluish cast, this one's more like:

I still don't mind wearing them for best, it's quite a small mend and doesn't stand out.

Sometimes mending and knitting can be comined, Tom's old Shetland jumper, which has been in his life longer than I have, went through at the elbows, so I knitted some elbow patches:

In fact the jumper's so thin now that I think it may not really have been worth the effort, but not to worry.

I like this red and purple stripe so much that I started knitting myself a hat with the same wool, but then I needed the needles for something else.

There are quite a few other half-completed mending projects in the bag: woolly walking socks with soles cut from felted sweaters waiting to be slippers, other old sweaters with their sleeves cut off to be made into waistcoats, the sleeves perhaps into boot toppers.  They may not all get finished, and it's all quite unnecessary, inexpensive and perfectly adequate new clothes can be bought, but it's fun, and satisfying, and no one else has got them.

*Many of these - drawing, painting, writing poems... - are quite possibly just on hold, and I'll come back to them later, for the moment I simply don't feel I need to be doing them.

Thursday, November 27, 2014


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.

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

A coasting post

Or rather a cheating one really, because I thought I'd just share some stuff which makes me smile from one of my Pinterest boards, the one where I put general pleasing, inspiring or funny things about knitting.

Three on Fair-Isle:

This is a character called Johnnie Jamieson who may be seen at the Shetland museum (though sadly no longer in the flesh I wouldn't imagine).  His hat is calles a toorie:

He's kind of Whisky-Galore-with-knobs-on isn't he? Magnificent.

This next guy is even funnier I think. He's quite beautiful too though, I think he's just out of a Rowan catalogue or something: 

I'm sure there are some who'd have the jumper off his back. I would, in fact, but purely to keep the jumper.

But these look the most adorable of all in Fair-Isle, no contest.

I think they came originally from the Shetland tourist board or something.

And lastly, one I fear is a little too close to the truth for comfort:


That'll do for today!