Monday 27th June, 23:37

Yes, I have a thesaurus.

So, today was hotter than a thousand fireflies in woollen tuxedoes doing Vikram yoga in the bowels of hell. Is that the hot one, Vikram? Well, that’s the one I mean, the hot one, my point being, it was phenomenally hot. And without the excuse of a hangover, I’m afraid I wasted most of the day. Or maybe I’m being too harsh on myself? I certainly did nothing too strenuous.

I brought in the second kitchen cabinet I’d found in the shed of many delights a couple of weeks ago and finally got round to washing yesterday. I cleaned out the spare room in preparation for my sister and nephew’s arrival on Wednesday. Not that they might want to sleep in there, more because it was a bit rank. And, because Maddie was starting to rush at the front door whenever I opened it, I found some wire mesh and some poles and I made her a little run out the front, where she can become acclimatised to the outdoors without being carried off by a buzzard or a wild boar, or raped by one of the other cats that keep turning over my rubbish bins and scowling at me malevolently. I worry, you see. I don’t know how parents cope. With the fear. The things that can happen.

Maddie loves it outside. I’m so pleased she’s such a mischievous little sprite and game for adventure. I’m sure most kittens are but there must the occasional one who’s a little bit dull, moany or joyless. Maddie’s great. In fact, she’s the greatest kitten in the world. Just like your kid is the greatest kid in the world, and if I ever have one, mine will be too.

Here she is under the generator…

I put plastic bottles of water out in the sun today and by 7pm, the water was too hot to touch.

Tonight I wrote on the wall like a madman.

First French lesson lined up for Thursday.

What I need is mosquito netting on the outside of the windows.

Tomorrow I must do more.

A bientot.

x

Sunday 26th June

I got a little drunk last night. And so on. But also I found two people who are prepared to help me learn French. In exchange one wants me to teach him Italian and the other wants me to teach her how to play guitar. I believe this is called barter, and it is perfectly befitting a man without a fridge. Actually, I do have a fridge, but for the moment I am unable to get it to work. And at the moment I really need a fridge.

Today was another scorcher and I’m afraid for the most part I sat around with a hangover playing with the kitten and drinking water. Oh, and wine. I did have a glass or two to coax me back to half-decent health but I’m not sure it worked.

Did a little burning in the evening then played guitar to the cat for a couple of hours. She likes my guitar-playing even though sometimes she cries and actually physically tries to make me stop. That’s just her way.

Blew the candles out not long after midnight and became aware of the sound of heavy machinery up on the vast meadow beyond the forest out back. It seems they come out at night to do their logging, and maybe a little burning. I’m guessing this is because it’s much cooler, but it could of course be because they are involved in some kind of nefarious illegal activity. I don’t mind either way. I like the noise of the engines and the various creaks under the strain of heavy lifting.

Maddie made her first kill today. Well, kind of. It was already dying really, a fly with long narrow wings – smaller than a crane fly – scrabbling around on the tiles of the floor, trying to fly, failing. Maddie pounced, knocked it about a bit and then ate it. I was quite upset. I explained to her, ‘You’re supposed to offer your quarry to me, you swine. I don’t mind you taking the lion’s share but I need to wet my beak. It’s about respect.’ She looked at me slyly as if to say, ‘I shat on your pillow’, and she sunk her teeth into my forearm.

I let her sleep in my bed by the way. Is that wrong? Sometimes I roll on top of her and she cries out. It would be terrible if I accidentally killed her. It’s not really likely though. I’m losing an awful lot of weight.

A bientot.

x

Saturday 25th June, 16:05

I’m writing up the last week. I won’t lie: I’m a little bit stoned.

I wasn’t sure whether to mention that side of things – not that it’s a whole side exactly, but you know what I mean. I want to go legit. I want to impress the same people who bought Mayle’s books. And I’m sure they don’t want mental images of some middle-aged drifter getting stoned with a kitten in the woods and slowly dying of asbestosis. I want this experience to grow legs and gain readers and lead eventually to a book. Two books. A film. You know. All that. That’s not why I’m here of course, but you have to work with what you’ve got, and as source material goes, this is better than sitting in an office just off of Oxford Street.

I know I don’t have to justify myself to you, but it’s instinctive. And I’m paranoid.

Anyway, I like drugs, and no matter where I am in the world, I’m probably going to find them. At the very least something to smoke. And I have. Balls to mental images, here I am, a little bit stoned…

Awww, that’s not so bad, eh? No worse than a glass or two of red wine. (I’ve also had a glass or two of red wine.)

Here’s a better one…

God, I’m having fun.

17:52

By the way, this is the first day of complete morning-till-evening sunshine. It’s unbearable. No, I jest. It’s absolutely wonderful and I can’t wait to get out in it. There’s a special thing tonight, a Fete de la Musique village event in Droux, and I need to get ready. The solar shower bag that Graham kindly left for me, piping hot, awaits.

I hope you’re having a delightful Saturday, wherever you are.

Adieu, adieu.

x

Friday 24th June, 02:17 (25th)

I’m sitting here typing this with my bastard cat on my lap purring away like there’s absolutely nothing wrong. But there really is.

I accompanied Graham to Nantiat this morning, setting off at 6.30 for the 7.45 train. Then I came home and slept like I’d been drugged by a horrible man who wanted to have his way with me. Then I went to the shops and bought a number of things, including cat litter. It stuck in my craw frankly, but I had become convinced that the mixture of wood shavings and fine sandy soil that I was using might have been part of the reason that Maddie had started shitting in inappropriate places.

On my return I moved Maddie out of the spare room and into the kitchen, where she promptly set about scaling a piles of boxes and pulling herself up towards the open tin of cat food which was resting on the rusting kitchen cabinet that I found in the old man’s shed. I gave her a couple of Mears Points and moved the boxes. Then I set up her new litter tray and plonked her on it. She promptly used it, making me feel confident that her scatty days were over.

Oh God. You can probably already see where this is going, but… oh God.

So then Alex pops round, bit pissed and at a loose end. We end up going back to his to eat and watch a film someone had leant him. The film, it turns out, is a film called A Good Year, based upon a novel by guess who… that’s right: Peter Mayle.

Peter bloody Mayle.

So we ate and put the film on. Alex was asleep within fifteen minutes but I stuck it out – and although there was a lot of terrible dialogue and some awful clunks in the story, it dragged me in. I can’t deny it. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I fucking hated it. It was diabolical. But I would be a liar if I said that by then end – no, balls, I hated it. It was probably just the woman who played the French love interest. She turned my mind.

So then I walked back here. It’s a nippy night and the clearest sky I’ve seen since I’ve been here. The Milky Way as clear and bright as that actress’s smile. Damn her! As I walked, I passed a rave in someone’s garden. That was interesting. And a children’s story I’ll almost certainly never write started taking shape in my head. I got home in fine spirits and when the smell hit my nose, I honestly thought it was probably coming from the kitchen. Maddie was on the bed. She woke up and greeted me with purrs and rubs and all manner of kitten delightfulness. But the smell and my suspicions grew stronger. ‘I’ll just check the room,’ I thought, grabbing my head-torch and starting with the bed. I moved the light over the kitten – with her butter-wouldn’t-melt little face – over the sleeping bag blanket and onto the pillow where my heart sank. Could it be? Had I inadvertently sourced a Reece’s peanut butter chocolate cup and left it on the pillow to melt?

I had not.

My kitten – my adorable kitten who is clearly the most intelligent kitten on Earth – had shat on my pillow.

I was angry.

I swore. I grabbed Maddie and didn’t quite rub her nose in it because that’s just cruel, but I certainly showed her it up close before taking her immediately to her little tray and tossing her down into it with an unpleasant amount of force.

Then I came here, turned on my computer and began to feel very bad.

Not only is she less than two months old but also, I’ve moved her litter tray twice in five days. And I speak a foreign language. How the fuck is she supposed to know what’s going on? Poor little diamond.

As I write this, she is sitting on the back of my neck. I am leaning forward to better accommodate her. I love her very much. And I know she is helping to make me into a better person. Because that’s what cats do. And to those awful women on those dating sites who with a supercilious snarl write ‘no men with cats’ on their profiles I say… yeah, it’s probably for the best. We wouldn’t have got on.

Now I’m going to go and change my pillow case and go to sleep.

I’m joking of course. I threw away the pillow case immediately after I’d taken this photograph…

The pillow itself is currently on top of the bookcase, out of harm’s way.

And here is me pretending to still be angry.

Bonne nuit.

x

Wednesday 15th June-Friday 24th June

At the train station on my way to meet Graham in Limoges, I met a Finnish puppeteer who might want me to give her daughter English lessons. That doesn’t happen every day.

By the time I arrived, Graham had found a fountain by which to wait. It was a hot day. A hot day in France. It’s funny but it’s only when someone from your old life comes and looks at you in your new life do you properly realise that you actually do have a new life.

I live in France. How novel.

From the fountain at the station, we walked into Limoges proper to buy a couple of essentials. One of those essentials was coffee. Tobacco was the other. We also bought wine in abundance and the rubberiest chicken ever to bounce its way out of a vaguery lacist Chinese restaurant joke. Thank you very much.

Also, on the way back to the station at the French version of Cash Converters (Cash Express) we bought a cheap guitar each. I chose a red one. Here it is with my ukulele in the background poking its head up like a little kitten…

And then we got to work.

The specifics of the next nine days are a bit of a mish-mash, inasmuch as I’m not sure what we did on each specific day and I’m damned if I’m going to waste time working it all out. Best I think to attempt an overview, with pictures and the occasional specific.

So…

Graham found a salamander under a tree root. At first he thought he’d killed it with his hoe. But he hadn’t. Here it is wondering what the hell has happened to its day…

We spent half a day clearing the field out front, concentrating initially on bracken, broom and bramble, which sounds like it might be the name of a trio of rural Christian warblers but as far as I am aware is not. It was during that session that we came across this little chap…

It’s not a very good photograph I’m afraid, as the batteries in my camera had run out and I had to Flip it and then screengrab it.

Technology is wonderful but I do miss hot running water.

We did a lot of walking. Nantiat is the nearest village that has grocery stores that sell cheese and wine, bakers that sell Thor-thigh baguettes, mechanics that fix dodgy strimmers, a library with access to the internet, and a train station. We went to Nantiat a lot. Unfortunately I do not have a driving licence and Graham had (rather selfishly) neglected to hire a car. So we walked. It’s only a little over three kilometres away (four to the train station), but it’s mostly uphill and it eats into the day. Forty-five minutes each way at the very least, usually carrying heavy bags, sometimes a dodgy strimmer.

So we walked, and even though it was tiresome and kind of a waste of time, it was also very beautiful and as is the case everywhere here, the walk to Nantiat is teeming with life. Sadly, the only things I managed to photograph were this discarded snakeskin…

 …and this rather sorry-looking dead hedgehog…

Look at its tiny hand!

Ideally I’d like to set off a firework for every dead animal I find, like they do in Drowning By Numbers, but I’d be at it all day. And I don’t have any fireworks.

Ideally I’d like to set off a firework for every dead animal I find, like they do in Drowning By Numbers, but I’d be at it all day. And I don’t have any fireworks.

What else?

 Trees. We had a couple of good days with the chainsaw, until it started playing up again. It is frustratingly temperamental.

Sunday afternoon was particularly fruitful. For Graham at least. I went out with Alex to pick something up. And when I got back, Graham had managed to convert the seven or so 20-foot trunks from the sweet chestnut cluster that we’d cut back the day before into fully limbed branches and a very impressive – and very neat – heap of logs…

Graham is leaning against what we left of the original tree, probably about an eighth. Fear not. She will be back.

We had another good logging session a day or so later, one of us feeding the logs across the saw-horse, the other cutting them up with the chainsaw. It’s hard work, and as safety gear is really sweaty and cumbersome in the heat, we eschewed it, a local news story waiting to happen.

I’ve decided to store logs for the winter in one of the two rooms in the shed at the bottom of the garden. Apparently I’ll need a lot. Thankfully, there is a large number of fallen trees in the woods around the house. One of my ongoing jobs is to cut them up into logs and stack them in the shed. I hope by October to be able to fill it. I’ve got a long way to go.

The reason I wasn’t there to help Graham on Sunday by the way, was because I had to go and meet someone for the first time. Her name is Maddie. Madeleine Flinch in full. Here she is…

That’s right, as of Sunday 19th June, 2010, I have responsibility. She is seven weeks old. And I love her.

What else?

We built a raised garden so that I can plant some vegetables. Just as soon as I get some compost. We built it by hammering stakes up to two foot into the earth, then building a back wall and two sides with logs and rocks. For the backlog we raped the forest floor and took old Temperamental Dick Chainey to the dead wood. Five metres long this log and it took all of our strength and ingenuity to move it up the forest bank and around to the front of the house, using rope and levers and other logs as rollers. When Alex came round, saw the log and heard our boasts of using ancient technology, he was not impressed. ‘I could’ve just hoisted it up on me shoulder,’ he said. He fucking couldn’t have though. It’s a lot heavier than it looks…

Graham is a brilliant bloke to have around when you’re out in the middle of nowhere trying to carve a life out of whatever there is at hand. I’m learning that I’m not so bad myself, but Graham has much more experience and specific knowledge. I would never have dreamed of raising myself a garden. Now I know.

What else?

Fire.

And lots of it. Fire for getting rid of branches and broom, fire for cooking cordon bleu meals every night and fire for staring into and thinking about life.

We also found time for a fair bit of catapult practice, knocking up a couple of targets using an old cymbal which I stole from Alex’s rubbish a couple of weeks ago, a rotting old cabinet from the treasure-house shed, the old carpet from the second room (used to trap precious missiles), bits of the old toilet we found in the undergrowth and a bunch of old cassoulet and tomato cans.

By the time we reached the end of a bag of 100 hex nuts which had Graham had brought with him, we were getting quite good. Then we moved on to the silver balls that came with the catapult. By the time we’d exhausted them, we were qualified ninja marksmen. Not cowboy ninja marksmen. Real actual ninja marksmen.

Unfortunately I have neglected to upload pictures of the target to my memory stick. Oh well. Some other time perhaps.

Ditto the toilet, which previously, spying its shape through dense briar, I had rather naïvely hoped might be a wildlife hide of some sort. But it was an outside loo, all collapsing in on itself and smelling of ancient excrement.

Incidentally, a bag of hex nuts was not the only thing Graham brought with him on the plane. He also brought a machete, three knives and a condom full of drugs stuffed up his arse.

No, I’m only kidding.

Although that might explain this peculiar pose…

What larks.

Not to mention a couple of nights out, flirting with French girls, or at least attempting to, being too drunk to play pool, playing pool, eating pizza, speaking diabolical French to anyone who would listen, meeting a couple of very interesting people and getting a kitten.

A kitten!

Finally.

x

Tuesday 14th June. 19:50.

19% battery left. What’s irritating about that – that battery fact – is that when I turned the computer off last night, there was 44%. Technology, eh?

Eh?

So, to be quick, this morning there were dark clouds everywhere so I went back to sleep to spite them. Then I got up and cut down the last few felled trees to decent branches and trunks for logging. Then I went to see the mayor. The mayor unfortunately, was not in. The mayor’s assistant, however, was. So I presented myself to Nadine and handed over my letter of introduction, plus a copy of my book. I thought that would be nice. I said in my letter that if the mayor didn’t understand English, maybe he could give it to an acquaintance who did. Not someone too young though, as parts of it were a little spicy. I watched Nadine as she read my letter – which I had had corrected by the way, by a Frenchperson, so it wasn’t the stilted mess my conversation was – and I waited for her to smile, or – ideally – laugh. She did neither. Uh-oh. But she was pleasant enough, and she showed me the multimedia centre out back where I can – for the few hours a week the mayor’s office is open – use the internet.

I also asked Nadine if she knew anyone who wanted to learn English. I am after all an English teacher of some considerable experience and I would be only too happy to offer English lessons in return for lessons in French, which I very much desire to learn. She said she did not.

Later that afternoon after spending three hours in Nantiat library blogging the first week’s diary entries, I asked the lady who worked there the same question. She gave the same answer. It seems no one in this part of France has even the remotest interest in learning English. And frankly speaking, why should they? But I shall persist. It’s early days.

Whilst in Nantiat, I also bought a telephone card and spoke to Graham, my friend in England who is flying out to Limoges tomorrow morning. I’m very looking forward to seeing him – him in particular as he has Mears Points coming out of his bowline and will be of no end of use when it comes to practical advice. Also, of course, I’m looking forward to seeing a dear old friend. (Him.)

As I write this, the sun is coming out for only about the fifth time today and I’m watching it dip behind the trees.

14% remaining.

I’ve started writing a book. The novel I decided I’d write/rewrite here isn’t going very well if you want to know the truth, but yesterday morning at about 5.45am I started writing A Stretch in Limousin, and the first 200 words or so I think are cracking. We shall see. One day my agent may get back in touch and we can discuss it. If he ever reads this, maybe that last sentence will prompt him. Hmmm. We shall see.

Ooh, I just wrote a sentence with the words ‘my agent’ in it without taking the piss out of myself.

Well done me.

Anyway, what I realised writing the first part of that book-to-be (fingers crossed) is exactly how much of a last resort this stretch in Limousin actually is, when it comes to writing. I’d joked about with friends before coming, but it’s no joke.

Anyway, this will crop up again, I’m sure.

In a moment, when the battery on this thing dies, I will drag myself back to A Year In Provence, which is becoming more and more irritating the further I get – I’m just over halfway through at the moment, but I’m not sure how many more lists of posh food I can tolerate. The whole thing though, is so horribly gentle. It’s like Last of the Summer Wine without the jokes. So yeah, it’s like Last of the Summer Wine. I mean, where’s the conflict, goddammit? Where’s the tension? Why on earth am I reading it? Well, I know why I’m reading it but why did so many other people?

There’s a whole new species of tiny flying bug that appeared today. Ladybirds too have suddenly made an appearance and my sister gave me the go-ahead to buy a wood burner. Oh, and I desperately want to get hold of a moped. Oh, and I was offered a bit of work today too. Crummy, dreadful, poorly-paid work, but crummy, dreadful, poorly-paid work I am happy and slightly desperate to do, and can do from here. So there you go. Possibilities everywhere.

But now, as I have a couple of hours light yet and feel as if I haven’t really done anything today, I’m going to hop into my boots and do a little gardening.

A la prochaine.

x

Monday 13 June. 06:16.

I got up at 5.40 today, which is a little more like it. Last night I read in bed for a couple of hours. Peter Mayle is really getting on my wick now. It’s just not that interesting for me to read about him and his wife meandering from one decidedly middle class dilemma to the next. ‘Ooh, we’ve bought a big stone table and if we don’t move it soon, we’re going to miss the truffle season.’ ‘Ooh, all of our middle class friends want to come out and stay with us in our 50-room stone farmhouse but we’re rather too self-centred to want to let them.’ Well, boo hoo.

I know, I know, I’m probably just jealous. I like to think I’m glad that my experiences feel slightly more raw, but am I? Am I really?

Last night was another bad night’s sleep. First of all, just as I turned my head-torch out to go to sleep, I started to hear the sound of a distant firework display. I got up and went outside in case there was something to see, but there was nothing to see. I’ll have to ask around and find out what was being celebrated – I think someone told me today is another bank holiday, which is probably religious, so maybe it was connected to that. Or maybe it was just some superrich ex-pats in the next village celebrating little Jackie’s birthday.

So yes, I slept badly. The itching is back to its very worst. Now if I were back in England, I would take off all the bedding and put it in the washing machine on a very high temperature and take a couple of showers a day till I started to feel normal again. But without hot water and electricity that’s not so easy. I’ll have a fire tonight and heat up enough water for a bath. Maybe I’ll take the bedding outside and shake it a bit. My fear though, is that there are hundreds of thousands of microscopic mites crawling through the bedding and all over my body as I attempt to sleep. There is nothing to see, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing there, and that’s what it feels like. God, I wish I was Peter Mayle.

There is a second cat which has started to hang around by the way. A rather dashing tortoiseshell cat. It’s outside now, going through my rubbish. Look…

On second thoughts, I don’t think either of them are wildcats. I reckon they probably belong to some neighbours on the other side of the forest. I wonder if the neighbours would mind if I bought catfood and befriended their pets. Is that weird? Is this whole thing weird? I’m starting to think it is. A strange man living in the woods, writing on the wall, feeding other people’s cats and scratching himself raw because of invisible mites. That’s what crazy people in bedlam do, isn’t it? They scratch all day and imagine themselves covered in lice or spiders.

Right. Anyway. I’d better get on.

19:00.

Rather than start a fire for hot water, I filled fifteen green bottles (and one transparent one) and left them in the sun, which was probably more constant today than at any time so far…

…and within three hours maximum, bob’s your uncle – enough warm water for a rather extravagant shower. Invisible skin mites no more. For now.

Now I hope to post all of this tomorrow, barring disaster. Then I hope to pop back to the library once a week and give an update. Please feel free to leave a plethora of comments on every single post, as your comments are now all I have to keep me sane. Ish. I leave you with some berries which look absolutely good enough to eat. Oh, it is a bank holiday by the way, which means the shops are closed, which means I’m absolutely starving.

Mmmmmm, Into the Wild.

Sunday June 12th. 18:12.

Last night was fun. Met some new people, went to some new places. However, I have decided not to write about other people on here. It’s not fair. And it’s dangerous. If I ever get to write a book about the whole experience, it’ll all go in there, but for now, there will be no scandal in this blog. That’s right. Scandal.

This morning I tidied and reorganised the front room and the kitchen. I’m writing this entry for the first time actually sitting at my desk, looking through the window at the back of the front room. Soon I intend to clean the window.

I have also started writing words on the wall. I realise that this place is starting to look like the house of a madman.

Oh, the cat came back! I hallooed it again and it bounded off into the forest like a gazelle. I really have to get a cat of my own. Maybe the responsibility is just what I need.

Show us more pictures, you say? Well, alright then.

Here is a bee…

Here is an ant (in a wheelbarrow)…

Here is a beetle…

Here are some mushrooms…

And here is the most colourful lizard I have ever seen…

Good huh?

A la prochaine.

x

Saturday 11th June. 19:50

Slept late and worked in the kitchen today. Was just washing the floor around 7pm when Alex came round to see if I fancied going to some party in some village somewhere. I didn’t really. When I put my phone on to charge this afternoon there was another message from my sister saying that the Inland Revenue want another £1,700 now, and Nationwide want some money for my credit card bill, as well as all of their overdraft back. As I was washing the floor I was cursing myself. I am a gargantuan fuck-up, I really am. I probably shouldn’t even mention it here as it doesn’t paint me in a positive light and no good can come of it. But I feel compelled. This is a diary of my experience here in France and the consequences of my life in England are a part of that. I am a fuck-up, there is no denying it.

So there it is.

The next logical step would be to decide what to do about it.

Anyway, when Alex asked me if I fancied going out tonight, I said that I honestly didn’t know. I didn’t know what I wanted. I didn’t know how I felt, outside of generally pissed off with myself. Alex’s advice under these circumstances was similar to what his advice is in other circumstances. Identical in fact. Alex advised that I ‘get amongst it’. So I allowed myself to be persuaded ad he’s coming back in half an hour.

If I were good at money, I swear, I’d be wholly content.

Maybe I should have a little skip. Maybe that’d cheer me up.

Oh, in other news, Peter Mayle is really starting to get on my nerves. I really wish he’d stop going on about his swimming pool.

Right. Goodnight to you.

x

Friday 10th June

Got up around 9, which is late, and got to work clearing. Made a lot of headway. Went to see the mayor this afternoon, but missed him by half an hour, as today is Friday, and on Fridays he goes home early. So I went to Nantiat to buy a hairbrush (to brush the weevils from my hair) and a marker pen (to write French words on the walls). Also stocked up on wine and cheese.

Tonight went with Alex and Dave the Plumber to Droux where I met a lot of English people, most of them excellent and thoroughly interesting types. I am having to rethink my prejudices concerning ex-pats. They’re not all like the hateful, muttering, insular types I got to know in Istanbul. Far from it. Also, last night, I met another person from Sunderland – not only that – he’s actually from Pennywell, and went to the same school as me, albeit ten years earlier. That, as Kurt Vonnegut would say, is a mildly amazing coincidence.

Also, the woman who runs the bar in Droux is called Sue. As well as a wood burner she is prepared to sell me, Sue has some kittens she needs to get rid of, as she and her husband have ‘thousands of cats’. I think she may have been exaggerating, but still. I’ve wanted a cat of my own for decades. She said I could always give it back if I ended up leaving. I think I’m going to have to go for it. Maybe after August when I have a week’s work in London.

We’ll see.

Drank too much. Had fun.

Lot of drunk driving over here, isn’t there?

x